eternallyordinary

[eternallyordinary]

“He Belongs to You” - Part 5

hope you’re all enjoying the fic. this is my first one—i’ve been a longtime reader and finally decided to give writing a shot. just finished the boys, so you could say i’m a little obsessed right now.

i’d love to hear your thoughts, and if you enjoy it, reblogs mean the world to help more people find it. feel free to message me with any requests. xo

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・

Summary: After a whirlwind 24 hours, Homelander’s obsession with you only grows. What started as desire has become something darker, more dangerous. But when he realizes someone hurt you before, his need for control turns to vengeance—and whoever’s responsible won’t live to regret it.

Warnings: Possessiveness, power dynamics, strong language, mature content, smut, violence, sexual content, mentions of sexual assault/rape, foul language, murder, yandere (if i forgot any pls let me know <3)

The morning light filters through the window, casting a soft glow over the room. You stir slightly, still curled up in Homelander’s lap, his fingers lazily running through your hair. He hasn’t moved all night. Hasn’t slept. Not once.

He just watched over you. A silent guardian against a threat that doesn’t exist—at least, not in this moment. His body should be exhausted, but it isn’t. Just being near you keeps him alert, wired, as if you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

A small yawn escapes your lips as you stretch, blinking up at him. “Good morning.”

His hand stills in your hair for a moment before resuming, a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips.

“Morning, doll,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Sleep well?”

You nod, sitting up and shifting in his lap until you’re straddling him, your legs curling around his waist. “I did. Did you even sleep?”

Homelander exhales, shaking his head. “No. I didn’t.” His grip on your hips tightens slightly. “I couldn’t. Just wanted to make sure you were safe.”

You smirk. “You know I’m a supe, right?”

It’s meant to be teasing, lighthearted. But the playful glint in his eyes fades almost instantly. His grip tightens—not enough to hurt, but enough to make a point.

“I know,” he mutters, voice dark. “But you’re not as strong as me. You’re not untouchable.” His jaw clenches. “I have enemies, and if they knew what you meant to me, they’d come for you. You think I’m gonna let that happen?”

You try to lighten the mood. “I mean… I do pilates.”

A short laugh escapes him, but his hands move up, cradling your face between his palms, forcing you to look at him. His amusement vanishes.

“I’m serious.”

Your expression softens as you study him. “Who wants to hurt you?” you ask. “Who would want to hurt me?”

His blue eyes darken, full of something unreadable. “Anyone who hates me,” he says simply. “And there’s a lot of them. They’d do anything to take me down—including hurting you. And I won’t let that happen.”

His grip is unrelenting, his words heavy with promise.

You don’t answer—not with words, anyway. Instead, you reach up, threading your fingers through his golden hair before leaning in, pressing your lips against his.

He responds instantly. There’s nothing soft about the way he kisses you, no hesitation. His hands slide up your back, pulling you tighter against him, like he can’t get you close enough.

But then you pull away, laughing breathlessly as you cover your mouth. “Ew—sorry. I should’ve brushed my teeth first.”

Homelander chuckles, the tension in his body easing. “Don’t worry about it, baby,” he says, voice low and teasing. “I don’t mind a little morning breath.”

Before you can protest, he reaches up, gently pulling your hand away from your mouth, his grip firm.

“And besides…” His eyes flicker with something dangerous. Something possessive. “I like it when you’re a mess.” He smirks. “Makes me want to ruin you even more.”

“Ruin me, huh?” Your voice is teasing, but there’s a nervous edge to it as you trace the rigid contours of his suit, your fingertip gliding over the perfectly etched lines of his abs.

Homelander’s eyes darken, his grip on your hips tightening. “I will ruin you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with possession. “But only for me. No one else will know how bad you are—just me.”

Your heart pounds against your ribs. Sometimes, being around him feels so natural, like you’ve known him forever. But then there are moments like this—moments where the weight of his intensity makes you hyperaware that your life is entirely in his hands.

His gaze locks onto yours. “There’s something else you need to know,” he says.

You swallow. “What?”

His expression sharpens, deadly serious. “I can’t think about you with other people. And I don’t want to. If I ever hear about you with someone else—before me—I’ll have to hurt them. Probably kill them.” His voice is disturbingly calm, like he’s stating a fact, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I don’t care if it was a fling. I don’t care if it was your first kiss back in grade school. There’s only before and after me now. Anyone who’s ever touched you will wish they hadn’t.”

Your breath catches. His jealousy is suffocating, terrifying—and yet, it sends a thrill down your spine.

“Well…” You hesitate, avoiding his piercing gaze. “You’re the only one who’s touched me.” You pause before correcting yourself, voice barely above a whisper. “Well… the only one I wanted to touch me.”

Homelander stiffens. His grip on you doesn’t falter, but something in his expression shifts. You regret speaking instantly.

Shit.

His blue eyes search yours, and without a word, he reaches up, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is surprisingly gentle. “Such a good girl,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, almost reverent. “It’s like you knew to wait for me.”

But he doesn’t miss the distinction in your words. The only one you wanted to touch you.

Who the fuck touched you without permission?

Names. He needs names.

A muscle in his jaw twitches, his mind already conjuring a thousand different ways to make them suffer. To make sure they regret ever laying a hand on you. To make sure they never touch anyone again.

He imagines tearing them apart, one by one, making you watch as he erases them from existence. Their names. Their families. Their homes. Everything they’ve ever loved—gone.

The thought makes his whole body tense. He shifts, readjusting himself as the dark, possessive hunger coils inside him, tightening like a vice.

But he can sense it—you’re not ready to talk about it. Not yet.

That’s fine.

You’ll tell him when you’re ready.

And when you do, he’ll make sure you watch as he destroys them all.

A knock at the door shatters the moment.

“Come in,” Homelander says smoothly—like this is his apartment, like he’s the one in control here.

Your head snaps toward him. What the fuck? You barely have time to adjust, sitting in nothing but a tank top and panties, the thin fabric of your shirt doing nothing to hide the way your nipples peek through. The door swings open, and of course, it’s Ashley.

Your boss.

Not his. He’s his own boss, you’ve come to realize.

Ashley stops in her tracks, her brows shooting up as she takes in the scene. You. Straddling him. And he—looking smug, satisfied—makes no move to let you go. If anything, his grip tightens, holding you in place like he wants her to see this. Hell, maybe he hopes she takes a picture, sends it straight to the top brass at Vought. Let them all see who you belong to.

“Hi… you two…” Ashley starts, hesitantly. She clears her throat, eyes darting between you and Homelander before settling on you. “Access Hollywood wants to do a piece on your journey to the Seven. I know people your age don’t really watch it, but it’ll be good for pulling in ratings from the 35 to 50 demographic.”

Homelander bristles. “Why the fuck does she need to pull from that demographic, Ashley?” His mind immediately goes to older men. The ones who’d watch the segment. The ones who’d look at you. They’d be his age, sure—but it’s different with him. Any other man, twice your age, interested in you? Fucking perverts.

Ashley falters. “Just, uh… covering all of our bases, sir.”

The tension in the room is suffocating. You force a smile, desperate to salvage some semblance of professionalism after the chaos of the past twenty-four hours. You don’t let Homelander speak.

“Okay. Great. I’ll get ready now,” you say quickly, trying again to lift yourself off his lap.

His hands keep you locked in place.

Fine.

You shock him with your fingertips.

“Ow! Fuck,” he hisses, just enough of a sting to loosen his hold. You smirk, tossing a blanket around yourself as you slip off him and head toward the bathroom.

He watches you disappear behind the door. The second it clicks shut, he stands, towering over Ashley.

“Why the fuck are we worried about whether forty-year-old perverts are interested in her?” His voice is low, dangerous. “Who gives a shit about ratings? She’s not doing it.”

Before Ashley can respond, a new voice cuts in.

Sage.

Standing at the door, watching the whole damn thing. Apparently, everyone is making themselves at home in your apartment.

“He’s obsessed with her,” Sage says bluntly, arms crossed. “It’s not healthy how possessive he is.”

Homelander turns, mock surprise on his face. “Oh, hi, Sage. It’s me, Homelander. I’m right fucking here.”

Sage doesn’t blink. “Let’s talk about your ratings. They’re already dogshit. You think screwing a twenty-something-year-old with a baby face is gonna help?”

His smirk fades. She knows she’s hit a nerve.

“You think I care about ratings?” His voice is sharp, seething. “She gives me something I need. Something I’ve never had before.”

Sage scoffs. “What? A tight hole? Get a grip, Homelander. You brought me onto the Seven to help you. To guide you. This? This is a stupid fucking mistake.”

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t make mistakes.

“I don’t need you to tell me what is or isn’t a mistake,” he snaps. “You work for me, remember? I make the decisions here. Not you.”

“She’s young. She’s new. You’re putting a target on her back.”

Ashley. Finally speaking up.

He barely acknowledges her, but she pushes forward.

“You have to see how reckless this is. It’s dangerous for both of you.”

Homelander clenches his fists. “I know the risks,” he grits out. “But I can protect her better than anyone. I won’t let anything happen to her.”

Ashley sighs, rubbing her temples. “By not sleeping? You look like you didn’t sleep at all last night.”

His eyes darken. “I don’t need sleep.”

“You do.”

Homelander stares at her. The audacity—speaking to him like this. But there’s no malice in her voice, just exhaustion.

“People will notice,” she continues, her voice softer now. “Just… please. Get it together.”

The room is silent.

Finally, he exhales sharply.

“Fine,” he mutters. “I’ll try to sleep.” A pause. “But I’m not letting her out of my sight.”

Sage and Ashley exchange a look—two women always at odds, finally agreeing on something.

Neither of them speak as they turn and leave, shutting the door behind them.

Homelander lowers himself onto the couch, his mind still tangled in the conversation with Ashley and Sage. Their words should mean nothing to him. But they linger.

The sound of the shower running pulls his attention away. His thoughts shift instantly—away from strategy, away from arguments—to you. Naked. Wet. Warm water cascading down your body.

His pulse quickens.

He stands. Walks toward the bathroom. His hand hovers over the handle, hesitating for only a second before pushing the door open.

Steam greets him, curling around his body as he steps inside. The air is thick with heat, fogging the mirror and the glass of the shower. But he can still see you—your silhouette blurred, water glistening on your skin.

His breath catches.

Slowly, he sheds his suit, letting the fabric fall in a careless pile on the floor. He moves toward the glass, watching you, savoring the sight. Then, without a word, he pulls the door open and steps inside.

You gasp, your arms moving instinctively to cover yourself.

He chuckles, amused. His eyes darken, his lips twitching into a smirk.

“Don’t hide from me, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough, thick with something dangerous. “I want to see all of you.”

His hands are on your wrists before you can react, pulling them away, pinning them above your head. The warmth of the water does nothing to cool the fire in his touch. He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss—slow at first, then deeper, his tongue pressing into your mouth, claiming every inch like it belongs to him.

A soft moan escapes against his lips, and it undoes him.

Something dark, something primal stirs inside him—something he’s barely been holding back.

His grip tightens in your hair, fingers tangling at the nape of your neck as he tugs, tilting your head back. Forcing you to meet his gaze.

Blue eyes, sharp and predatory, lock onto yours. His chest rises and falls, his breath ragged. He drinks in the sight of you, wet and vulnerable beneath him, completely at his mercy.

And god, he likes it. He was ready to fuck you, to devour you. He puts his cock against your clit, rubbing small circles with his tip. He feels the way your body tenses beneath him, the shift so subtle yet impossible to ignore.

And then your words echo in his mind— You’re the only one who’s touched me.

Something dark in him—something selfish, something monstrous—wants to take, to claim, to make you his without hesitation. To ask for forgiveness later, not permission now.

But the part of him that needs you, that aches for you in ways he doesn’t fully understand, knows better.

You deserve more than that. More than him at his worst.

Your first time should be something close to heaven.

And for you, he chooses restraint. He exhales sharply, jaw tight as he pulls back, shifting himself away from your center. The need inside him rages, demanding more, but he won’t let it win.

Not with you.

You exhale, your breath finally steadying—but the moment you do, his voice cuts through the steam, firm and commanding.

“Lay down.”

He doesn’t reach for the faucet, doesn’t bother turning the water off. The warm stream continues cascading over both of you, soaking his hair until strands cling to his face, his eyes dark beneath them.

He watches you, unblinking, unmoving—his presence overwhelming in the small space.

Slowly, you lower yourself, your back meeting the wet tile, your hair fanning out around you, heavy with water.

His eyes drink you in, his voice thick with possession as he commands, “Open your legs for Daddy.”

He lowers himself onto his knees, his gaze sweeping over you with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. He studies you like a masterpiece—something rare, something fragile, something that belongs to him. He gently opens up your pussy with his fingers, slowly massaging the hood of your tiny clit.

You moan without restraint, your body reacting instinctively, back arching in ways you never thought possible. He continues to rub your clit, then he sticks a finger in.

Then 2.

Then 3.

Each thrust is slow and deliberate, a silent reminder that every part of you belongs to him. Then, with effortless strength, he lifts your legs, draping them over his shoulders, your head tilting back as pleasure overtakes you.

He aggressively kisses and sucks your clit. He’s like a rabid animal—hungry, insatiable. If he could devour you completely, he would.

He continues to suck your clit, feeling it harden. He begins to stroke his cock with purpose. Effortlessly, he uses one hand to keep you upright, his grip firm yet controlled, as if you weigh nothing at all.

“Please don’t stop, baby, please,” you beg, your voice trembling with desperation.

Homelander’s grip tightens as he looms over you, his eyes dark with possession.

“Tell me who you belong to,” he commands, his voice low and unwavering.

“You—I—I belong to you!” you cry out, your body trembling as you surrender completely to him.

Suddenly, your body tenses, a wave of pleasure crashing over you as you reach your peak. A rush of warmth spills into his mouth, and Homelander doesn’t hesitate—his lips part, tongue hanging out, greedily lapping up every drop like a man starved, as if he’s been waiting his whole life just for this. He strokes his cock with more determination—he releases a low growl and lets his cum paint your backside.

Both of you exhale. He gently releases your legs from his neck. Keeping your legs spread, he uses his cum as a lubricant to rub your clit even more.

“One day, this will be inside of you. You’re going to be such a good mommy,” he whispers, his voice dark with promise.

Your breath hitches as you sit up, hands finding their way to the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. His fingers continue their slow, deliberate movements, drawing another soft whimper from your lips. Foreheads pressed together, your breaths mix, shaky and uneven.

You come undone once more, trembling in his grasp.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against your lips, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “That’s it. Always so good for me, you know that?”

His mouth finds yours again, kissing you deeply before pulling back, allowing you a moment to breathe.

The two of you sit there on the shower floor, water cascading over your tangled bodies, the heat between you rivaling the steam filling the space. Neither of you speak, just taking a moment to absorb the weight of what just happened.

“That was…” you murmur, still breathless.

Homelander presses a kiss to your forehead, his grip on you possessive yet tender. “Come on,” he says, voice softer than usual. “You have to get ready.”

You blink up at him, confusion flickering across your face. Just a moment ago, he was adamant about you not doing the interview. What changed?

As the two of you stand, rinsing off the remnants of heat and indulgence, you finally ask, “What did they want earlier?”

Homelander doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulls you against him, his grip firm, his lips crashing into yours like he needs to make a point. His kiss is deep, hungry—like he’s claiming you all over again. His hands find your wrists, pinning them against his chest as he devours you, breathing you in like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

When he finally pulls away, his expression is unreadable, torn between frustration and something far more dangerous.

“Ashley and Sage,” he mutters, jaw tight. “Being nosy. They think I’m too obsessed with you. That I’m making a mistake.”

You smirk against his lips, tilting your head as you press another slow, teasing kiss to his mouth, letting your tongue flick against his.

“You are obsessed with me,” you whisper, your words a challenge.

Homelander growls low in his throat as you tease his lips, his grip tightening on your hips. You’re right—he is obsessed with you. Entirely. Uncontrollably.

He pulls you flush against him, pressing his body into yours like he needs to mold himself to you, like he wants to brand his presence onto your skin. His hands roam with purpose, tracing every curve, memorizing every inch.

“I am obsessed with you,” he finally admits, voice thick with an emotion he barely understands. “And it scares the hell out of me how much I need you.”

You tilt your head, your gaze steady. Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you.

His grip loosens slightly, his expression shifting—not soft, but vulnerable, if only for a moment.

“I know,” he mutters, almost like he’s reassuring himself. “That’s what scares me. I don’t… I don’t need people. I never have. But you?” His fingers flex against your skin. “You’re different.”

You smirk, your playful nature creeping back in. “You know that’s normal, right? Well… maybe not this,” You gesture between your bodies, naked and pressed together after barely a day of knowing each other. “Never mind.” You giggle.

Homelander chuckles, shaking his head, his grip steadying you against him. “No, doll, this isn’t normal,” he agrees, smirking as he brushes wet strands of hair from your face. “But I’ve never liked normal anyway.”

He kisses you again before turning you around, his hands threading through your hair as he massages shampoo into your scalp. His touch is slow, deliberate, almost too gentle for him. He works through your hair with a care that’s foreign to him, his hands sliding down to knead your shoulders, rubbing away whatever tension lingers.

You let out a sigh, tilting your head forward. That feels so good, you murmur.

Homelander hums in satisfaction, fingers kneading deeper. “You have no idea how good it feels to touch you like this,” he mutters, his voice dipping lower. “To have you completely at my mercy.”

You glance back at him, studying his face through the steam.

“You like knowing you can hurt me, that you can end me… don’t you?” You ask. “It’s okay. You can tell me.”

His hands still for a fraction of a second. He absorbs your words, his jaw clenching, his blue eyes darkening with something unreadable.

He doesn’t deny it.

“Yeah,” he finally murmurs, his voice rough. “I do.” His fingers brush down your spine, barely touching. “I like knowing I could crush you if I wanted to. That I have all the power.” He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “But I don’t want to hurt you. I want to protect you.”

Homelander kisses you again, slow and deep, but his mind is already elsewhere. Somewhere darker.

Your words haven’t left him. They won’t. They cling to his brain like a parasite, infecting every thought, twisting his stomach into knots of rage he hasn’t felt in a long time.

“You’re the only one who’s touched me. Well… the only one I wanted to touch me.”

His fingers twitch against your skin, his muscles tightening as he fights the urge to demand their names right now. He pictures them—whoever they are—small, pathetic, unworthy. He doesn’t need details. He doesn’t need a reason.

He just needs to hear you say the words.

Tell him who they are.

Tell him where they live.

Tell him how they did it.

And he’ll take care of the rest.

He imagines their faces caving under his fists, teeth splintering like cheap glass, their pitiful screams cutting off with the wet, sickening squelch of his fingers ripping their tongues straight from their throats. He’ll tear them open, gut them like livestock, string them up in a place only he can see so he can admire his handiwork when he’s feeling nostalgic. Maybe he’ll fly them so high the oxygen thins before dropping them—make them fall for miles, long enough to know exactly when they’re about to hit the ground, long enough to understand they’re about to die before their bodies splatter like meat against pavement.

It’s what they deserve. It’s the bare fucking minimum.

But not yet.

Not yet.

He needs to be patient. For you.

So instead of demanding answers, instead of forcing them from your lips, he just pulls you closer, pressing another soft kiss to your jaw. You don’t notice the way his fingers dig into your skin a little harder, or how his breath turns just a little more ragged. You don’t see the violent, vicious promise buried deep in his eyes as he whispers against your skin.

“One day, baby… you’re gonna tell me who they are.”

You swallow hard.

They.

You thought he forgot.

Oh, silly girl. A man like him? He doesn’t miss anything.

Homelander watches your reaction, soaking in every twitch, every breath, every slight shift in your expression. His grip on your waist tightens just enough to remind you—he’s still in control. He always will be.

His smile lingers, slow and knowing, a predator savoring the scent of fresh blood.

“I see that look, baby,” he murmurs, his voice smooth but laced with something sharper, something hungry. His fingers slide up your spine, his nails ghosting over your skin like a warning. “You didn’t really think I’d let that slide, did you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Your heartbeat pounds so loudly in your ears it nearly drowns out his voice, but he hears it. Of course, he does.

He likes it.

Loves it.

Because it tells him everything he needs to know.

“Mmm.” He hums, leaning in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath warm against your damp skin. “Don’t worry, sweetheart.”

His tone is soft, almost gentle, but it carries the weight of something final. A promise. A death sentence.

“I’ll take care of it.”

His lips curl, pressing a lingering kiss just below your ear as he breathes in deep—like he’s inhaling your fear, drinking it in, letting it settle deep in his lungs.

He smiles, a slow, dangerous thing.

Homelander lets the words hang in the air, heavy and absolute.

“And believe me… once I’m finished with them? They’ll beg for death.”

He says it so casually, like he’s talking about the weather. But there’s something in his voice—glee. The kind of twisted, unhinged satisfaction that sends a chill down your spine.

Your stomach knots. You should stop him. You should say something. But the way he’s looking at you? That wild, feverish glint in his eye?

It’s too late.

His mind is already painting the scene—rivers of blood, splintered bone, screams so raw they tear through vocal cords. He wants them to suffer. He wants them to hurt. To feel every ounce of pain they inflicted on you a thousand times over.

And when they’re on their knees, their bodies broken beyond repair, gasping through bloodied lips for mercy?

There won’t be any.

“I’ll make sure they remember your name,” he purrs, dragging a thumb over your bottom lip. “Right before I carve it into their fucking skulls.”

You swallow hard, your breath shaky.

He smiles. Oh, he loves this. Loves the way you react, loves the fear, the hesitation—because it confirms what he already knows.

They’re dead.

They just don’t know it yet.

[eternallyordinary]

“He Belongs to You” - Part 5

hope you’re all enjoying the fic. this is my first one—i’ve been a longtime reader and finally decided to give writing a shot. just finished the boys, so you could say i’m a little obsessed right now.

i’d love to hear your thoughts, and if you enjoy it, reblogs mean the world to help more people find it. feel free to message me with any requests. xo

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・

Summary: After a whirlwind 24 hours, Homelander’s obsession with you only grows. What started as desire has become something darker, more dangerous. But when he realizes someone hurt you before, his need for control turns to vengeance—and whoever’s responsible won’t live to regret it.

Warnings: Possessiveness, power dynamics, strong language, mature content, smut, violence, sexual content, mentions of sexual assault/rape, foul language, murder, yandere (if i forgot any pls let me know <3)

The morning light filters through the window, casting a soft glow over the room. You stir slightly, still curled up in Homelander’s lap, his fingers lazily running through your hair. He hasn’t moved all night. Hasn’t slept. Not once.

He just watched over you. A silent guardian against a threat that doesn’t exist—at least, not in this moment. His body should be exhausted, but it isn’t. Just being near you keeps him alert, wired, as if you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

A small yawn escapes your lips as you stretch, blinking up at him. “Good morning.”

His hand stills in your hair for a moment before resuming, a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips.

“Morning, doll,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Sleep well?”

You nod, sitting up and shifting in his lap until you’re straddling him, your legs curling around his waist. “I did. Did you even sleep?”

Homelander exhales, shaking his head. “No. I didn’t.” His grip on your hips tightens slightly. “I couldn’t. Just wanted to make sure you were safe.”

You smirk. “You know I’m a supe, right?”

It’s meant to be teasing, lighthearted. But the playful glint in his eyes fades almost instantly. His grip tightens—not enough to hurt, but enough to make a point.

“I know,” he mutters, voice dark. “But you’re not as strong as me. You’re not untouchable.” His jaw clenches. “I have enemies, and if they knew what you meant to me, they’d come for you. You think I’m gonna let that happen?”

You try to lighten the mood. “I mean… I do pilates.”

A short laugh escapes him, but his hands move up, cradling your face between his palms, forcing you to look at him. His amusement vanishes.

“I’m serious.”

Your expression softens as you study him. “Who wants to hurt you?” you ask. “Who would want to hurt me?”

His blue eyes darken, full of something unreadable. “Anyone who hates me,” he says simply. “And there’s a lot of them. They’d do anything to take me down—including hurting you. And I won’t let that happen.”

His grip is unrelenting, his words heavy with promise.

You don’t answer—not with words, anyway. Instead, you reach up, threading your fingers through his golden hair before leaning in, pressing your lips against his.

He responds instantly. There’s nothing soft about the way he kisses you, no hesitation. His hands slide up your back, pulling you tighter against him, like he can’t get you close enough.

But then you pull away, laughing breathlessly as you cover your mouth. “Ew—sorry. I should’ve brushed my teeth first.”

Homelander chuckles, the tension in his body easing. “Don’t worry about it, baby,” he says, voice low and teasing. “I don’t mind a little morning breath.”

Before you can protest, he reaches up, gently pulling your hand away from your mouth, his grip firm.

“And besides…” His eyes flicker with something dangerous. Something possessive. “I like it when you’re a mess.” He smirks. “Makes me want to ruin you even more.”

“Ruin me, huh?” Your voice is teasing, but there’s a nervous edge to it as you trace the rigid contours of his suit, your fingertip gliding over the perfectly etched lines of his abs.

Homelander’s eyes darken, his grip on your hips tightening. “I will ruin you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with possession. “But only for me. No one else will know how bad you are—just me.”

Your heart pounds against your ribs. Sometimes, being around him feels so natural, like you’ve known him forever. But then there are moments like this—moments where the weight of his intensity makes you hyperaware that your life is entirely in his hands.

His gaze locks onto yours. “There’s something else you need to know,” he says.

You swallow. “What?”

His expression sharpens, deadly serious. “I can’t think about you with other people. And I don’t want to. If I ever hear about you with someone else—before me—I’ll have to hurt them. Probably kill them.” His voice is disturbingly calm, like he’s stating a fact, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I don’t care if it was a fling. I don’t care if it was your first kiss back in grade school. There’s only before and after me now. Anyone who’s ever touched you will wish they hadn’t.”

Your breath catches. His jealousy is suffocating, terrifying—and yet, it sends a thrill down your spine.

“Well…” You hesitate, avoiding his piercing gaze. “You’re the only one who’s touched me.” You pause before correcting yourself, voice barely above a whisper. “Well… the only one I wanted to touch me.”

Homelander stiffens. His grip on you doesn’t falter, but something in his expression shifts. You regret speaking instantly.

Shit.

His blue eyes search yours, and without a word, he reaches up, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is surprisingly gentle. “Such a good girl,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, almost reverent. “It’s like you knew to wait for me.”

But he doesn’t miss the distinction in your words. The only one you wanted to touch you.

Who the fuck touched you without permission?

Names. He needs names.

A muscle in his jaw twitches, his mind already conjuring a thousand different ways to make them suffer. To make sure they regret ever laying a hand on you. To make sure they never touch anyone again.

He imagines tearing them apart, one by one, making you watch as he erases them from existence. Their names. Their families. Their homes. Everything they’ve ever loved—gone.

The thought makes his whole body tense. He shifts, readjusting himself as the dark, possessive hunger coils inside him, tightening like a vice.

But he can sense it—you’re not ready to talk about it. Not yet.

That’s fine.

You’ll tell him when you’re ready.

And when you do, he’ll make sure you watch as he destroys them all.

A knock at the door shatters the moment.

“Come in,” Homelander says smoothly—like this is his apartment, like he’s the one in control here.

Your head snaps toward him. What the fuck? You barely have time to adjust, sitting in nothing but a tank top and panties, the thin fabric of your shirt doing nothing to hide the way your nipples peek through. The door swings open, and of course, it’s Ashley.

Your boss.

Not his. He’s his own boss, you’ve come to realize.

Ashley stops in her tracks, her brows shooting up as she takes in the scene. You. Straddling him. And he—looking smug, satisfied—makes no move to let you go. If anything, his grip tightens, holding you in place like he wants her to see this. Hell, maybe he hopes she takes a picture, sends it straight to the top brass at Vought. Let them all see who you belong to.

“Hi… you two…” Ashley starts, hesitantly. She clears her throat, eyes darting between you and Homelander before settling on you. “Access Hollywood wants to do a piece on your journey to the Seven. I know people your age don’t really watch it, but it’ll be good for pulling in ratings from the 35 to 50 demographic.”

Homelander bristles. “Why the fuck does she need to pull from that demographic, Ashley?” His mind immediately goes to older men. The ones who’d watch the segment. The ones who’d look at you. They’d be his age, sure—but it’s different with him. Any other man, twice your age, interested in you? Fucking perverts.

Ashley falters. “Just, uh… covering all of our bases, sir.”

The tension in the room is suffocating. You force a smile, desperate to salvage some semblance of professionalism after the chaos of the past twenty-four hours. You don’t let Homelander speak.

“Okay. Great. I’ll get ready now,” you say quickly, trying again to lift yourself off his lap.

His hands keep you locked in place.

Fine.

You shock him with your fingertips.

“Ow! Fuck,” he hisses, just enough of a sting to loosen his hold. You smirk, tossing a blanket around yourself as you slip off him and head toward the bathroom.

He watches you disappear behind the door. The second it clicks shut, he stands, towering over Ashley.

“Why the fuck are we worried about whether forty-year-old perverts are interested in her?” His voice is low, dangerous. “Who gives a shit about ratings? She’s not doing it.”

Before Ashley can respond, a new voice cuts in.

Sage.

Standing at the door, watching the whole damn thing. Apparently, everyone is making themselves at home in your apartment.

“He’s obsessed with her,” Sage says bluntly, arms crossed. “It’s not healthy how possessive he is.”

Homelander turns, mock surprise on his face. “Oh, hi, Sage. It’s me, Homelander. I’m right fucking here.”

Sage doesn’t blink. “Let’s talk about your ratings. They’re already dogshit. You think screwing a twenty-something-year-old with a baby face is gonna help?”

His smirk fades. She knows she’s hit a nerve.

“You think I care about ratings?” His voice is sharp, seething. “She gives me something I need. Something I’ve never had before.”

Sage scoffs. “What? A tight hole? Get a grip, Homelander. You brought me onto the Seven to help you. To guide you. This? This is a stupid fucking mistake.”

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t make mistakes.

“I don’t need you to tell me what is or isn’t a mistake,” he snaps. “You work for me, remember? I make the decisions here. Not you.”

“She’s young. She’s new. You’re putting a target on her back.”

Ashley. Finally speaking up.

He barely acknowledges her, but she pushes forward.

“You have to see how reckless this is. It’s dangerous for both of you.”

Homelander clenches his fists. “I know the risks,” he grits out. “But I can protect her better than anyone. I won’t let anything happen to her.”

Ashley sighs, rubbing her temples. “By not sleeping? You look like you didn’t sleep at all last night.”

His eyes darken. “I don’t need sleep.”

“You do.”

Homelander stares at her. The audacity—speaking to him like this. But there’s no malice in her voice, just exhaustion.

“People will notice,” she continues, her voice softer now. “Just… please. Get it together.”

The room is silent.

Finally, he exhales sharply.

“Fine,” he mutters. “I’ll try to sleep.” A pause. “But I’m not letting her out of my sight.”

Sage and Ashley exchange a look—two women always at odds, finally agreeing on something.

Neither of them speak as they turn and leave, shutting the door behind them.

Homelander lowers himself onto the couch, his mind still tangled in the conversation with Ashley and Sage. Their words should mean nothing to him. But they linger.

The sound of the shower running pulls his attention away. His thoughts shift instantly—away from strategy, away from arguments—to you. Naked. Wet. Warm water cascading down your body.

His pulse quickens.

He stands. Walks toward the bathroom. His hand hovers over the handle, hesitating for only a second before pushing the door open.

Steam greets him, curling around his body as he steps inside. The air is thick with heat, fogging the mirror and the glass of the shower. But he can still see you—your silhouette blurred, water glistening on your skin.

His breath catches.

Slowly, he sheds his suit, letting the fabric fall in a careless pile on the floor. He moves toward the glass, watching you, savoring the sight. Then, without a word, he pulls the door open and steps inside.

You gasp, your arms moving instinctively to cover yourself.

He chuckles, amused. His eyes darken, his lips twitching into a smirk.

“Don’t hide from me, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough, thick with something dangerous. “I want to see all of you.”

His hands are on your wrists before you can react, pulling them away, pinning them above your head. The warmth of the water does nothing to cool the fire in his touch. He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss—slow at first, then deeper, his tongue pressing into your mouth, claiming every inch like it belongs to him.

A soft moan escapes against his lips, and it undoes him.

Something dark, something primal stirs inside him—something he’s barely been holding back.

His grip tightens in your hair, fingers tangling at the nape of your neck as he tugs, tilting your head back. Forcing you to meet his gaze.

Blue eyes, sharp and predatory, lock onto yours. His chest rises and falls, his breath ragged. He drinks in the sight of you, wet and vulnerable beneath him, completely at his mercy.

And god, he likes it. He was ready to fuck you, to devour you. He puts his cock against your clit, rubbing small circles with his tip. He feels the way your body tenses beneath him, the shift so subtle yet impossible to ignore.

And then your words echo in his mind— You’re the only one who’s touched me.

Something dark in him—something selfish, something monstrous—wants to take, to claim, to make you his without hesitation. To ask for forgiveness later, not permission now.

But the part of him that needs you, that aches for you in ways he doesn’t fully understand, knows better.

You deserve more than that. More than him at his worst.

Your first time should be something close to heaven.

And for you, he chooses restraint. He exhales sharply, jaw tight as he pulls back, shifting himself away from your center. The need inside him rages, demanding more, but he won’t let it win.

Not with you.

You exhale, your breath finally steadying—but the moment you do, his voice cuts through the steam, firm and commanding.

“Lay down.”

He doesn’t reach for the faucet, doesn’t bother turning the water off. The warm stream continues cascading over both of you, soaking his hair until strands cling to his face, his eyes dark beneath them.

He watches you, unblinking, unmoving—his presence overwhelming in the small space.

Slowly, you lower yourself, your back meeting the wet tile, your hair fanning out around you, heavy with water.

His eyes drink you in, his voice thick with possession as he commands, “Open your legs for Daddy.”

He lowers himself onto his knees, his gaze sweeping over you with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. He studies you like a masterpiece—something rare, something fragile, something that belongs to him. He gently opens up your pussy with his fingers, slowly massaging the hood of your tiny clit.

You moan without restraint, your body reacting instinctively, back arching in ways you never thought possible. He continues to rub your clit, then he sticks a finger in.

Then 2.

Then 3.

Each thrust is slow and deliberate, a silent reminder that every part of you belongs to him. Then, with effortless strength, he lifts your legs, draping them over his shoulders, your head tilting back as pleasure overtakes you.

He aggressively kisses and sucks your clit. He’s like a rabid animal—hungry, insatiable. If he could devour you completely, he would.

He continues to suck your clit, feeling it harden. He begins to stroke his cock with purpose. Effortlessly, he uses one hand to keep you upright, his grip firm yet controlled, as if you weigh nothing at all.

“Please don’t stop, baby, please,” you beg, your voice trembling with desperation.

Homelander’s grip tightens as he looms over you, his eyes dark with possession.

“Tell me who you belong to,” he commands, his voice low and unwavering.

“You—I—I belong to you!” you cry out, your body trembling as you surrender completely to him.

Suddenly, your body tenses, a wave of pleasure crashing over you as you reach your peak. A rush of warmth spills into his mouth, and Homelander doesn’t hesitate—his lips part, tongue hanging out, greedily lapping up every drop like a man starved, as if he’s been waiting his whole life just for this. He strokes his cock with more determination—he releases a low growl and lets his cum paint your backside.

Both of you exhale. He gently releases your legs from his neck. Keeping your legs spread, he uses his cum as a lubricant to rub your clit even more.

“One day, this will be inside of you. You’re going to be such a good mommy,” he whispers, his voice dark with promise.

Your breath hitches as you sit up, hands finding their way to the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. His fingers continue their slow, deliberate movements, drawing another soft whimper from your lips. Foreheads pressed together, your breaths mix, shaky and uneven.

You come undone once more, trembling in his grasp.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against your lips, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “That’s it. Always so good for me, you know that?”

His mouth finds yours again, kissing you deeply before pulling back, allowing you a moment to breathe.

The two of you sit there on the shower floor, water cascading over your tangled bodies, the heat between you rivaling the steam filling the space. Neither of you speak, just taking a moment to absorb the weight of what just happened.

“That was…” you murmur, still breathless.

Homelander presses a kiss to your forehead, his grip on you possessive yet tender. “Come on,” he says, voice softer than usual. “You have to get ready.”

You blink up at him, confusion flickering across your face. Just a moment ago, he was adamant about you not doing the interview. What changed?

As the two of you stand, rinsing off the remnants of heat and indulgence, you finally ask, “What did they want earlier?”

Homelander doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulls you against him, his grip firm, his lips crashing into yours like he needs to make a point. His kiss is deep, hungry—like he’s claiming you all over again. His hands find your wrists, pinning them against his chest as he devours you, breathing you in like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

When he finally pulls away, his expression is unreadable, torn between frustration and something far more dangerous.

“Ashley and Sage,” he mutters, jaw tight. “Being nosy. They think I’m too obsessed with you. That I’m making a mistake.”

You smirk against his lips, tilting your head as you press another slow, teasing kiss to his mouth, letting your tongue flick against his.

“You are obsessed with me,” you whisper, your words a challenge.

Homelander growls low in his throat as you tease his lips, his grip tightening on your hips. You’re right—he is obsessed with you. Entirely. Uncontrollably.

He pulls you flush against him, pressing his body into yours like he needs to mold himself to you, like he wants to brand his presence onto your skin. His hands roam with purpose, tracing every curve, memorizing every inch.

“I am obsessed with you,” he finally admits, voice thick with an emotion he barely understands. “And it scares the hell out of me how much I need you.”

You tilt your head, your gaze steady. Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you.

His grip loosens slightly, his expression shifting—not soft, but vulnerable, if only for a moment.

“I know,” he mutters, almost like he’s reassuring himself. “That’s what scares me. I don’t… I don’t need people. I never have. But you?” His fingers flex against your skin. “You’re different.”

You smirk, your playful nature creeping back in. “You know that’s normal, right? Well… maybe not this,” You gesture between your bodies, naked and pressed together after barely a day of knowing each other. “Never mind.” You giggle.

Homelander chuckles, shaking his head, his grip steadying you against him. “No, doll, this isn’t normal,” he agrees, smirking as he brushes wet strands of hair from your face. “But I’ve never liked normal anyway.”

He kisses you again before turning you around, his hands threading through your hair as he massages shampoo into your scalp. His touch is slow, deliberate, almost too gentle for him. He works through your hair with a care that’s foreign to him, his hands sliding down to knead your shoulders, rubbing away whatever tension lingers.

You let out a sigh, tilting your head forward. That feels so good, you murmur.

Homelander hums in satisfaction, fingers kneading deeper. “You have no idea how good it feels to touch you like this,” he mutters, his voice dipping lower. “To have you completely at my mercy.”

You glance back at him, studying his face through the steam.

“You like knowing you can hurt me, that you can end me… don’t you?” You ask. “It’s okay. You can tell me.”

His hands still for a fraction of a second. He absorbs your words, his jaw clenching, his blue eyes darkening with something unreadable.

He doesn’t deny it.

“Yeah,” he finally murmurs, his voice rough. “I do.” His fingers brush down your spine, barely touching. “I like knowing I could crush you if I wanted to. That I have all the power.” He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “But I don’t want to hurt you. I want to protect you.”

Homelander kisses you again, slow and deep, but his mind is already elsewhere. Somewhere darker.

Your words haven’t left him. They won’t. They cling to his brain like a parasite, infecting every thought, twisting his stomach into knots of rage he hasn’t felt in a long time.

“You’re the only one who’s touched me. Well… the only one I wanted to touch me.”

His fingers twitch against your skin, his muscles tightening as he fights the urge to demand their names right now. He pictures them—whoever they are—small, pathetic, unworthy. He doesn’t need details. He doesn’t need a reason.

He just needs to hear you say the words.

Tell him who they are.

Tell him where they live.

Tell him how they did it.

And he’ll take care of the rest.

He imagines their faces caving under his fists, teeth splintering like cheap glass, their pitiful screams cutting off with the wet, sickening squelch of his fingers ripping their tongues straight from their throats. He’ll tear them open, gut them like livestock, string them up in a place only he can see so he can admire his handiwork when he’s feeling nostalgic. Maybe he’ll fly them so high the oxygen thins before dropping them—make them fall for miles, long enough to know exactly when they’re about to hit the ground, long enough to understand they’re about to die before their bodies splatter like meat against pavement.

It’s what they deserve. It’s the bare fucking minimum.

But not yet.

Not yet.

He needs to be patient. For you.

So instead of demanding answers, instead of forcing them from your lips, he just pulls you closer, pressing another soft kiss to your jaw. You don’t notice the way his fingers dig into your skin a little harder, or how his breath turns just a little more ragged. You don’t see the violent, vicious promise buried deep in his eyes as he whispers against your skin.

“One day, baby… you’re gonna tell me who they are.”

You swallow hard.

They.

You thought he forgot.

Oh, silly girl. A man like him? He doesn’t miss anything.

Homelander watches your reaction, soaking in every twitch, every breath, every slight shift in your expression. His grip on your waist tightens just enough to remind you—he’s still in control. He always will be.

His smile lingers, slow and knowing, a predator savoring the scent of fresh blood.

“I see that look, baby,” he murmurs, his voice smooth but laced with something sharper, something hungry. His fingers slide up your spine, his nails ghosting over your skin like a warning. “You didn’t really think I’d let that slide, did you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Your heartbeat pounds so loudly in your ears it nearly drowns out his voice, but he hears it. Of course, he does.

He likes it.

Loves it.

Because it tells him everything he needs to know.

“Mmm.” He hums, leaning in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath warm against your damp skin. “Don’t worry, sweetheart.”

His tone is soft, almost gentle, but it carries the weight of something final. A promise. A death sentence.

“I’ll take care of it.”

His lips curl, pressing a lingering kiss just below your ear as he breathes in deep—like he’s inhaling your fear, drinking it in, letting it settle deep in his lungs.

He smiles, a slow, dangerous thing.

Homelander lets the words hang in the air, heavy and absolute.

“And believe me… once I’m finished with them? They’ll beg for death.”

He says it so casually, like he’s talking about the weather. But there’s something in his voice—glee. The kind of twisted, unhinged satisfaction that sends a chill down your spine.

Your stomach knots. You should stop him. You should say something. But the way he’s looking at you? That wild, feverish glint in his eye?

It’s too late.

His mind is already painting the scene—rivers of blood, splintered bone, screams so raw they tear through vocal cords. He wants them to suffer. He wants them to hurt. To feel every ounce of pain they inflicted on you a thousand times over.

And when they’re on their knees, their bodies broken beyond repair, gasping through bloodied lips for mercy?

There won’t be any.

“I’ll make sure they remember your name,” he purrs, dragging a thumb over your bottom lip. “Right before I carve it into their fucking skulls.”

You swallow hard, your breath shaky.

He smiles. Oh, he loves this. Loves the way you react, loves the fear, the hesitation—because it confirms what he already knows.

They’re dead.

They just don’t know it yet.

[eternallyordinary]

“He Belongs to You” - Part 4

Part 1<3

Part 2<3

Part 3<3

Summary: A tense night takes an unexpected turn, blurring the lines between control, desire, and something far more dangerous.

Warnings: Possessiveness, power dynamics, strong language, mature content, smut, violence, sexual content, mentions of sexual assault/rape, foul language, yandere (if i forgot any pls let me know <3)

Homelander stands in the lobby, hands in his pockets, waiting for you. He looks every bit the Hollywood superstar, dressed in an impeccably tailored Armani suit. The staff and even Ashley stare at him, wide-eyed, surprised to see him actually dressed up.

“Quit staring,” he snaps, voice sharp. “I’m capable of looking presentable.”

Despite the irritation in his tone, he keeps glancing at his watch, his gaze flicking toward the elevator doors, anticipating your arrival. Ashley studies him carefully, her brows furrowing. Something is different. She can see it in the way he holds himself, the subtle tension in his shoulders, the rare sign of nervousness in the way he shifts his weight. She knows Homelander is possessive, but this? This is something else.

Then, the elevator doors slide open. The entire lobby stills.

Homelander’s breath catches in his throat, his gaze locked onto you as you step out. Even Ashley—who rarely reacts to anything—is stunned into silence, her mouth parting slightly as she takes in your appearance.

Every muscle in his body tenses, his instincts flaring to life. He sees the way people turn to look at you, the murmurs passing through the room. He doesn’t like it. He steps forward, jaw tight, fighting the urge to fly you the fuck out of here.

“Okay, so, your first interview on the carpet is fifteen minutes after arrival,” your publicist reminds you, flipping through a clipboard. “MTV is first—you’re really winning them over. Let’s keep it that way.”

You nod absentmindedly, but your focus is on him. He stands nearby, watching you intently, smug and satisfied that you’re so distracted by him. He can’t help but smirk. Your publicist keeps rattling off information, but you barely process it. Instead, you catch Homelander’s gaze and, subtly, mimic a blowjob gesture—fist pumping at your mouth as a way to say “I’m so fucking bored”.

He actually laughs. A real, genuine laugh. It’s low, rumbling, the kind of sound that sends a shiver down your spine. He shakes his head, amused.

He approaches with a smile. “You really have a way with words, sweetheart.”

The publicist pauses, eyes flicking between you and him. She clearly wasn’t expecting this.

“Homelander, can we chat?” Lindsay, your publicist, cuts in.

His expression immediately shifts, guarded.

“What is it?” His voice is gruff, irritated that she’s interrupting.

“Alone.”

Homelander’s eyes flick to you. He doesn’t want to leave your side. Not now. But he knows Lindsay won’t let this go.

“Fine.” He grits his teeth. “Make it quick.”

Lindsay folds her arms, walking a few steps away from you. Your expression remains firm.

“Word travels fast. It’s her first day in the Tower and she’s glued to your side. What’s your endgame?”

Homelander’s brow twitches.

“She was brought onto The Seven for Gen Z appeal,” Lindsay continues, unfazed by his glare. “And I mean this with respect—because I know you could laser my fucking head off—but you two have totally different audiences. So tell me… what’s your goal with her? If it’s something unkind—if you’re just using her—I need to know. Not because I’m her publicist. Because I’m a mother. And she—”

She gestures toward you from across the room, her expression softening. “She doesn’t have one. She has no one looking out for her. So, I figure I should. Does that make sense?”

Homelander stares. For a moment, he doesn’t say a word.

He wants to be pissed that she’s questioning him. Who the fuck does she think she is? But instead, something in him pauses. Because he gets it. He knows what it’s like to have no one looking out for you.

His jaw clenches. “You think I’m going to hurt her?”

Lindsay exhales. “I’m saying this because I care. And I know damn well you could kill me right now, so bear with me and just be a fucking human for a moment.”

Her voice lowers. “Your track record isn’t great, Homelander. She’s young. She’s vulnerable. Remember when you were that age? Fresh on The Seven? Of course, you were always the most powerful. But do you remember when you were trusting? Timid? Do you really think you have her best interest at heart?”

His nostrils flare.

He doesn’t like this.

He doesn’t like being confronted with memories he’s buried.

He doesn’t like the implication that he isn’t good for you.

“I…” He swallows hard. He doesn’t do vulnerability. But the words slip out before he can stop them.

“I do care about her.”

Lindsay holds his gaze.

Then, she nods. “Just don’t prove otherwise.”

She pivots on her heel and walks away, offering you a bright, easy smile like she didn’t just challenge the most dangerous man on the planet.

Homelander watches her leave, his mind racing.

He hates that she got under his skin. He hates that she forced him to admit something even to himself. But most of all—

He hates that she’s right.

You approach him, sensing the tension. “Do I look like a total poser in this?” You smooth your hands down the sleek fabric, feeling slightly out of place in something so fancy.

Homelander’s expression softens instantly.

His lingering frustration vanishes.

His gaze roams over you—slowly, deliberately. His breath hitches slightly, his fingers flexing at his sides as if he’s physically restraining himself from touching you.

“You look…” His voice is low, rough. “Absolutely goddamn perfect.”

You look down, smiling shyly. “Don’t leave me tonight,” you say, voice soft. “I feel awkward as fuck.”

Homelander steps closer, towering over you, crowding your space. He lifts your chin with two fingers, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The way he says it—so final, so sure—sends warmth through you.

You hesitate for a moment, then reach for his hand.

His entire body stills.

The weight of your fingers in his hits him like a punch to the chest.

You know what this means. The media will talk. Vought will talk. But you don’t care.

You feel safe with him. And for some reason—Homelander feels safe with you, too. His grip tightens—possessive, unchallenged.

The weight of a thousand stares settles on him, the murmur of whispers creeping around them like static. The media. The Vought execs. The cameras. He doesn’t give a single fuck.

All that matters is your hand in his.The warmth of it. The trust it implies. It feels right. Like this is exactly where he was always meant to be.

As you step onto the red carpet, the energy in the air shifts. All eyes are on you.

The Vought execs? Pissed.

This wasn’t a part of the branding. This wasn’t a part of the plan.

Too bad.

A reporter wastes no time pushing forward, mic in hand, eyes wide with interest.

“Well—this is unexpected,” she says, forcing a polite smile. “Can we get a comment on this sudden… pairing?”

Homelander parts his lips to respond— but you cut him off.

“Yes, thank you so much!” you say smoothly, smiling for the cameras. “I’m so happy to be here and to be a part of The Seven. I’m honored Homelander put his trust in me!”

You don’t answer the question.

His jaw tightens.

You deflected. Smart. But that’s not what he wanted.

He grits his teeth, fingers flexing against yours, gripping just a little tighter. The reporters eat it up, the execs continue seething, and Homelander?

He just stands there, holding back the urge to grab your face and make things very, very clear.

The reporter hesitates, waiting for more. But you don’t give her more.

Instead, you smile, a polite, closed-lip expression, and turn away. “Thank you.”

“Alright, you need to take some solo shots in front of this,” your publicist cuts in. “Excuse us, Homelander.”

Homelander follows anyway.

Like a shadow. Like a protector. Like someone who isn’t ready to let you go.

You’d think he was the rookie, following your lead.

You step in front of the cameras, striking pose after pose, effortlessly stunning. He watches, arms crossed, expression unreadable—but inside?

He’s fucking losing it.

Pride. Jealousy. Desire. It all collides at once.

The flashes go off like fireworks, illuminating every inch of you, and he hates it.

Hates how much he wants to rip the photographers apart. Hates that the world gets to see you like this.

Hates that you aren’t his.

“Take a photo with Homelander! Take one with Homelander!”

The reporter’s voice snaps him out of it.

His gaze sharpens.

“Take a photo with Homelander!” she repeats.

Fine.

He steps forward, his arm immediately finding your waist.

His grip is firm. Possessive. Not aggressive, but unmistakably territorial.

You barely react, maintaining your poised expression for the cameras.

But he feels it.

The tension. The silent awareness between you.

The cameras go off. Click. Click. Click.

“Do you ever get used to this?” you ask, smiling for the cameras.

Homelander glances down at you, the hint of a smirk curling at the edge of his mouth.

“No,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. Honest. “You never fully get used to it.”

His grip tightens around your waist as he pulls you just a little closer, like he’s daring someone to try and pry you away.

He can already hear the whispers. The hushed murmurs, the scandalized gasps from the Vought execs. Good. Let them talk.

Inside the theater, the seat assignments are already set. Your name is next to The Deep’s. Homelander takes one look at the card, then at Ashley.

“Oh, fuck no. Switch it.” His voice is quiet, controlled. That’s how she knows he’s not asking.

Ashley barely swallows down her exasperation, quickly adjusting the seating chart before she can even process why he’s acting like this.

“Of course, Homelander.”

The Deep sighs, slumping back into his chair. “Didn’t wanna sit next to you anyway, psycho bitch.” He mutters under his breath.

Before he can blink, your knee slams into his crotch.

His entire body seizes up as he wheezes like a deflated balloon.

Homelander? He just smirks. Watches with amusement as The Deep folds in on himself like a house of cards. Normally, he’d step in—but you? You handled it yourself.

“You’re making quite an impression,” he murmurs, eyes gleaming with something almost affectionate. Pride, even.

But that pride shifts quickly to something else entirely.

The lights dim. The director makes his introductions, saying all the same predictable garbage.

Then—the real mistake.

“Homelander, would you like to say a few words?”

Homelander rises.

Slowly. Powerfully.

The room falls silent before he even reaches the podium. The weight of his presence alone is enough to demand the world’s attention.

“Thank you, thank you.” His voice carries effortlessly through the theater, low and controlled—calculated. “Tonight, we celebrate something much bigger than a movie. Bigger than entertainment. Bigger than Vought.”

The audience leans in.

Here it comes.

His eyes scan the room—but they keep landing on you.

“You see, real power isn’t just about strength.” He tilts his head, voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial. “It’s about legacy. It’s about stepping forward and shaping the world into something better, something stronger.”

The cameras pan to you.

You sit rigidly still, your smile frozen in place as you begin to understand exactly where this is going.

“We all remember what happened last year.” His tone darkens, the weight of his past lingering in the air. “We all saw the cracks, the division, the betrayal.”

A flicker of unease passes through the crowd. The execs shift in their seats. No one dares to interrupt.

“But Vought was built on something greater, wasn’t it? Hope. Leadership. The right people for the job.”

And then, his gaze locks onto you.

Unwavering. Unrelenting.

“And that’s why we’re here tonight.”

Your stomach twists.

“This woman right here,” he steps down from the podium, each step slow, deliberate. “Is the future.”

“She’s what we need.” His voice grows stronger, more emphatic. “A fighter. A leader. Someone who will take us into the next era. And I, for one—” his hand extends toward you, palm up, demanding you take it— “will be standing right beside her.”

You have two choices.

Leave him hanging in front of the cameras.

Or take his hand.

The air thickens.

And before you can even think—your fingers are already lacing into his.

His grip tightens instantly.

Possessive. Unyielding.

“This woman—” he lowers his voice, slow, intentional, drawing out every syllable, ”—is mine.”

The weight of the words crushes the air from your lungs.

The whispers start immediately.

The Vought execs? Livid.

The team? Livid.

A-Train leans over to Black Noir, whispering, “What the fuck is he doing?”

Black Noir shrugs. “Bro, I don’t know. I can’t even see in this mask.”

“Stop talking,” A-Train hisses. “You don’t talk. Remember?”

Homelander ignores them all.

All he cares about is your face.

And your expression? Not what he was expecting.

He expected flushed cheeks. Excitement. Something akin to gratitude.

Instead—he sees the tears picking up in your eyes.

Something in his chest pulls.

He hesitates, his grip loosening just slightly. “What’s wrong?” he asks, voice quiet, just for you.

You keep smiling, because of course you do. Because everyone is watching.

“Everyone is watching,” you murmur through clenched teeth. “Can you just—finish whatever the fuck this is?”

Homelander’s smile drops.

Annoyance flickers across his face, but beneath it? Something else. Something closer to uncertainty.

This was supposed to be a moment. A declaration. But instead…

You look trapped.

He forces out a tight-lipped smile, stepping back toward the microphone.

“Right.” His tone is less certain now, like he’s recalibrating.

He speeds through the rest of his speech, still booming with confidence, still commanding the room, but there’s a sharp edge now.

Like he’s pissed off.

Like he expected more from you.

The second the movie ends, you stand up and walk. Not looking at him. Not hesitating. You’re not going to the after-party. You need to breathe.

Homelander watches you go. For a split second, he almost follows. But then, something inside him shifts.

He stands near the exit, his jaw clenched, hands buried in his pockets as he watches you disappear.

He lets you go—for now. But that doesn’t mean he likes it.

The rest of the night is nothing but fake people and fake bullshit. Forced smiles. Pointless conversations. Vultures.

“Where’s your little protégé, Homelander?”

“Did she run off already?”

“Should we expect a big announcement soon? She’s quite the media moment for you.”

He forces a laugh, the perfect picture of charm and amusement. But beneath the surface?

He’s imagining peeling their fucking skin off.

The way their voices would break in terror. The way their bodies would snap like twigs in his hands. The way their smug, condescending grins would disappear in a spray of red.

“Oh, you know how it is,” he chuckles smoothly, his eyes dark. “Young girls. So emotional. So fragile.”

They laugh along with him, oblivious to how close they are to death.

He hates them.

But mostly? He hates that you’re not here.

You sit on your couch, curled up in your pajamas, flipping through channels without actually watching anything. You should feel relieved that he didn’t chase after you. That he respected your space. But you don’t. You feel unsettled. Like something is missing.

And as soon as you have that thought—

Tap.

Your breath catches.

Another tap, tap, tap against the glass door of your balcony.

You turn your head slowly, and there he is.

Standing outside your window.

Homelander, with his arms folded behind his back, staring right at you.

Your stomach tightens. He’s so still. Not knocking. Not speaking. Just watching you.

The moment stretches until, finally, you push yourself up and slide the door open.

“Did you really have to fly up here?” you mutter, turning on your heel. “We live in the same building.”

Homelander steps inside. His boots land heavily against the floor, his presence instantly filling the room.

“Would you have let me in if I knocked?” he counters, voice tinged with something unreadable.

You roll your eyes. “I’m surprised you didn’t just force your way in. You have no problem not asking permission.”

Homelander tilts his head. Just slightly. The shift in his expression is immediate.

Something flickers in his eyes.

He takes a step forward.

And then another.

He closes in, until he’s standing right in front of you.

Any other person would be terrified. But you? You just cross your arms and stare up at him.

“What was today?” you demand, your voice sharp. “Did you treat me like you were interested just to give that speech and rack up points for your ratings? What a fucking coincidence—Homelander claims the young new member of The Seven. That’ll look great for the shareholders, huh?”

Homelander’s nostrils flare. “Is that what you think?” he scoffs, stepping even closer. “That this is all for ratings?”

His voice is cool, but you can feel the frustration coiling beneath it. “You think I’m just using you like some PR stunt?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

Homelander’s jaw tightens. His muscles coil like he’s ready to snap. But then—he exhales sharply, shaking his head.

“You wanted to prove yourself, huh?” His voice is lower now, rougher. “You think I don’t take you seriously?”

He moves even closer, towering over you.

“I’m the reason you’re here.” His voice is like a growl, his fingers twitching at his sides. “I chose you because I know how serious you are.”

You laugh. But it’s not a nice laugh.

It’s sharp. Cold. Mean.

“Yeah. A serious fuck is what you thought.”

And then—

You push him.

It’s not hard. It’s not violent.

But it’s deliberate.

And for a moment?

Homelander looks genuinely stunned.

Because no one does that.

No one dares.

You see the flicker of something dangerous in his face. Something unhinged.

But just as quickly—

His expression changes.

Dark amusement replaces his shock.

His eyes flash. He leans down, voice dropping to a low murmur.

“Watch yourself, sweetheart. You push me? You’ll regret it.”

You roll your eyes.

“That’s it?”

You turn your back to him, walking over to the couch, completely unfazed.

Homelander watches you go.

And he’s never been more sure that you were made for him. You’re just like him, and you don’t even realize it.

He sits beside you, his posture still coiled, tense.

“You have a lot of nerve,” he mutters, voice tinged with irritation. “No one lays a hand on me.”

You don’t even look at him.

“And yet, you’re still here.” Your voice is calm. “And you haven’t killed me yet.”

Homelander stares. Something in his expression shifts.

“You really think I’d kill you?” His voice is softer now. “That I’d ever hurt you?”

And that?

That throws you off.

Because he actually sounds—offended.

Like the very idea of hurting you is something that he’s never even considered.

You sigh. Exasperated. “You don’t even see what you did wrong, do you?”

His patience snaps. “Wrong?” He scoffs. “What did I do wrong?”

You lift your head, eyes locking onto his. “You took away my choice.”

Homelander stiffens.

You shake your head, a bitter smile on your lips.

“I like you, Homelander. I do.” Your voice is quieter now. “I had fun with you today.”

For a second—just a second—he softens.

But then—

“But why couldn’t you have given me some time?” You shake your head. “Now I’ll never be taken seriously. I’ll always just be your arm candy. A mindless woman. Isn’t that what you called them?”

Homelander’s lips press into a thin line.

He doesn’t answer.

Because for once, he doesn’t know what to say.

You see it in his face—the conflict, the moment of hesitation. He doesn’t regret claiming you. But for the first time, he wonders if he should have waited. If it would have been different.

Your voice is barely above a whisper now. “Now they might never see that.”

Your eyes glisten. Homelander notices immediately. And for the first time in a long, long time—he feels something strange.

Guilt.

He reaches for you—but you’re already moving, slipping away before he can touch you.

Heading for the kitchen. Putting space between you.

Homelander watches you go, jaw tightening. The way you dismiss him so easily—it grates on him. You won’t even give him the satisfaction of an argument, of a reaction. But he’s not letting you walk away from this.

He rises to his feet, his movements eerily smooth, controlled. He follows you, where you pause, hands gripping the edge of the counter.

He steps in behind you, so close you can feel the heat radiating off him. His presence is suffocating, a force pressing down on you.

“You think you can just ignore this?” His voice is low, edged with tension. “That I’ll let it go?”

You turn, lifting yourself onto the counter so you can meet his gaze. A challenge. A question.

“I don’t even know what you want from me,” you say, exhaling sharply.

Homelander’s eyes darken, the intensity of his stare almost unbearable. He leans in, placing his hands on the counter on either side of you, effectively trapping you in. His breath brushes against your skin, his lips hovering just above your jaw.

“What I want is one thing,” he murmurs, voice thick with something dangerous. His nose grazes your neck, his fingers tightening against the counter. “What I need? That’s you.”

Your breath hitches.

He presses closer, his body heat consuming you, his control fraying at the edges. You let out a soft, involuntary sound, and the shift in his demeanor is immediate—his grip tightens, his muscles flex, his breath stutters for just a moment. Then, he loses the last thread of restraint.

Homelander buries his face in your neck, dragging his lips over your skin, his teeth grazing the sensitive curve. His hand snaps forward without thinking, gripping the countertops quartz edge—too hard. The stone cracks under his fingers, breaking apart like it was never meant to hold his strength.

His lips move against your ear, voice thick, raw. “There she is,” he murmurs. “Letting go.”

His mouth trails along your jaw, reverent and possessive all at once. “You knew the second you walked into that tower,” he whispers, his grip tightening. “You knew you were mine.” 

“I’m… I’m nervous…” you whisper, barely audible.

Homelander hears it anyway. Of course, he does. His eyes flicker, scanning your face, reading every microexpression, every unspoken thought. He can feel the way your breath hitches, how your pulse flutters beneath your skin.

But he’s not deterred. If anything, it only feeds something deeper inside him. You’re hesitant. Cautious. Not like the others—never like the others. And that’s what makes this different. What makes you different.

For once, he doesn’t mind restraint. Doesn’t mind the slow burn of patience, the thrill of coaxing you forward instead of taking what he wants. He’s always been good at everything—faster, stronger, unstoppable. Maybe that’s why nothing has ever truly satisfied him. But this? You? You make him want to work for it.

He presses closer, his body firm against yours, the cool countertop at your back, the heat of him in front of you. His hands skim the edge of the counter, caging you in without force.

“There’s no need to be nervous, baby,” he murmurs, his voice a mixture of control and indulgence. The promise of patience, but only for you. “I’ve got you.”

He places a hand on your inner thigh, inching closer to the outside of your panties. Rubbing slow circles, he teases your pussy. “Already wet for me,” he says with pride. You moan, arching your back as you grab onto his strong shoulders.

“You like that baby?” You nod your head and grab onto his neck, maintaining eye contact. He knows you don’t like it. You love it. You tried to avoid his advances all day, tried to pretend you weren’t interested. Tried to pretend you didn’t care. But here you are, melting into him. Giving him all of the power. Just like he knew you would.

Without saying a word, your body language gives him permission to pull your panties to the side. “Is this okay?” he finds himself asking. You nod, running your fingers through his blonde hair. He begins to rub your clit with his thumb, placing his mouth over yours just to taste the air you breathe out.

“Fu-fuck Homelander-I-I-”

“Yes baby? Say it.” 

“I love the way you-“ 

“You love the way I what, baby?” 

“The way you tou-touch me,” you moan. 

“Only I can touch you,” Homelander whispers, “If I find out anyone else has touched you, I’ll fucking kill them. You understand, right?”

“Ye-yes sir,” you answer with bated breath.

“Do you want daddy to put his fingers inside you?” Homelander asks.

“Yes-but-pl-please be gentle,” I say as my eyes roll back in my head.

This is heaven for him. Ecstasy. Watching you let go. Watching you let him take control of your body. He moves his fingers to your mouth, gently placing two inside. This takes you by surprise. You begin to suck on them, maintaining eye contact with him. You can tell he likes when you look at him. He begins to explore your mouth, sliding his fingers around your cheeks. It takes all of his strength to not slide his fingers down your throat and watch you gag and choke on your own juices. He removes his fingers before he has that thought again.

“He places his hand back on your pussy, rubbing your clit with his thumb again. “Now, what does my good girl need to say to daddy before he finger fucks her?” Homelander asks.

“Pl-please?” I whimper.

“Good girl,” he says with praise, slowly putting one finger inside your tight hole. You let out a moan. Or was it a cry? He isn’t sure, but the thought of you crying for him makes his cock throb with delight. His finger pumps in and out of your pussy. He makes sure to start slow, feeling your walls clench around him. 

“Baby, you are so tight. Is this hurting you?” He asks, with genuine concern.

“N-no,” you whisper, “you feel so good.”

He loves seeing you like this—completely unguarded, free. No tension, no hesitation, just you, surrendering to the moment. This is how he wants you always—at ease, trusting, his.

You begin to pick up the pace. Grinding harder against his hand, fucking yourself against his fingers. Your head knocks against the cabinet, splitting it clean in half from the sheer force—but neither of you react. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is you, and the way he’s intent on giving, not taking. On worshiping every inch of you like you deserve.

“You can put in another finger,” you say, almost pleading.

He lets out a low laugh. “Baby,” he says, “one finger will barely fit. Let’s take it one step at a time,” he whispers, kissing your forehead.

He begins to curl his finger inside of you, pumping it harder against your walls. He rubs your clit as he finger fucks you, never breaking eye contact. You start to close your eyes - he knows your close.

“No, don’t close your eyes. Look at me,” he demands.

You open your eyes. The feeling is overwhelming - you feel like you’re about to explode.

“That’s it, good girl. You’re such a good girl for daddy.”

“Daddy?” you whimper.

“Yes, baby?”

“I think I’m going to cu-“

“You’re going to what?”

“I-I-I-“

“Say it now, or else I stop,” he demands, placing his freehand over your throat.

“I’m going to cum!”

“There you go. Cum for me sweetheart. You earned it. You’re so good for daddy, letting him stretch you out like this. Come on baby, let go,” he encourages.

You release, moaning and screaming his name. The whole tower can surely hear this. Homelander doesn’t give a fuck. Actually, he welcomes it. Let them hear the noises you make for him and only him. If they weren’t aware you were his, now they fucking know.

The wetness of your pussy, the sounds. The way your clit and your insides throb instantaneously is better than anything he’s ever felt in his whole entire fucked up life. He lets your clit continue to thump against his fingers, kissing you until you finish your orgasm. You recover, feeling a bit exposed. A bit nervous, a bit embarrassed. But also really fucking good.

“Did you like that? Couldn’t really tell,” he teases, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he presses kisses along your neck. His arms stay locked around you, holding you close—like letting go isn’t an option, like you might disappear if he loosens his grip even a little.

“That was… amazing.” You whisper.

Normally, Homelander never gives without expecting something in return. If you were any other woman, you’d be on your knees getting skull fucked. He wouldn’t care if you came, hell, he wouldn’t even care if you were aroused. But this… this was different. You were different. For once, his own satisfaction didn’t matter—because in a way, it already had been. Seeing you like this, knowing he could unravel you, knowing he could give instead of just take—it was enough. After the way he hurt you, whether he fully understood it or not, he just wanted to make you feel good. And that realization? That almost scared him.

And you were waiting for it—the inevitable moment when he would ask for more. When the generosity would come with a price. Because men didn’t just give. Not without expecting something in return.

You knew all too well. Your mind rewinds like a VCR tape—taking you back to when you were 15 years old, passed out on a bed after drinking too much. The boys at the party put their dicks and their fingers and their tongues inside of you. They didn’t care that you woke up with bruises. They didn’t care that you couldn’t sit down without feeling pain on your private parts. Men take. Boys take. They all take. Until women have nothing else to give.

You snapped yourself out of your trance and waited for him to say “my turn”. But he didn’t ask. He just held you, kissed you, like it was enough. Like you were enough.

And in that moment, you knew—you couldn’t lose him. No matter how fucked up he was, how self-absorbed or overwhelming. You had only known him for a day, but it didn’t matter. There was no before, no after. Just him.

Breaking the silence, you wrap your arms around his neck. “Can you just stay with me tonight? Lay with me?”

Homelander’s expression shifts. The possessive fire in his eyes dims just enough to reveal something else—something softer, more uncertain. He watches you, sees the vulnerability in your face, the unspoken plea for comfort. And it stirs something inside him. A need he isn’t used to.

His hand comes up, cupping your cheek with a gentleness that surprises even him. “Of course,” he murmurs, his voice quieter, less commanding. “I’ll stay. I’ll hold you all night.”

You share a slow, lingering kiss. Then, you pull back just enough to smirk. “So… do you sleep in that ridiculous suit too?”

Homelander chuckles, shaking his head. The tension between you eases, just a little. “No, sweetheart,” he says, amusement threading through his voice. “If I did, I’d probably overheat and drop dead in my sleep.” His lips twitch into a smirk. “I do have pajamas, though. You better not laugh.”

You kiss him again, pulling him toward the couch. Settling in, you turn on Netflix, scrolling until you find some ridiculous reality show you know he’d never watch on his own. But tonight, he doesn’t complain.

It’s easy. Normal.

You fall asleep like this, your head in his lap, his fingers lazily threading through your hair.

But he doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t want to.

He watches over you instead, his mind never fully quiet. He knows the illusion won’t last, that the world outside is cruel and dangerous. That there are people who will try to hurt you just to get to him. Maybe he should have hidden you away, kept you to himself. But it’s too late for that.

One thing is certain—whoever tries to take you from him will pay the price.

He watches the soft rise and fall of your breath, the way you look so unguarded, so safe in his arms. He’s always questioned his purpose. Always wondered why he was made.

It wasn’t for America. It wasn’t to be their hero.

No.

The answer became clear the moment you walked into the tower: He was made to love and protect you.

[eternallyordinary]

"He Belongs to You" - Part 3

Part 1 <3

Part 2 <3

Part 4<3

Summary: A last-minute shopping trip turns into a game of power and control as you and Homelander navigate unspoken tension, playful defiance, and the undeniable pull between you. The night isn't even close to starting, yet the stakes already feel dangerously high.

Warnings: obsession, possessive behavior, power imbalance, mild violence, harassment, implied dark themes, mild smut

You step out of the photoshoot, the air thick with tension. The halls of Vought Tower are quieter now, but beside you, Homelander is anything but. You’re still in your bikini, cardigan, and Uggs, arms crossed over your chest. Your body feels exposed, and not just because of the flimsy outfit.

You glance up at him. You've heard the stories. You've heard the rumors. You shouldn't be alone with him. But yet, you feel so safe when he's near you. You’ve only spent one day together, so why does it feel like so much longer?

You break the silence. "Can I ask you something?"

Homelander’s sharp gaze flicks to you, softening just slightly. His eyes trace your casual, mismatched outfit—the bikini hidden beneath your cardigan, the way your Uggs make you look small, delicate.

"Of course. Ask me anything."

You hesitate, then say it. "Why are you being so protective of me?"

He stills. The answer is simple—he knows why. But admitting it out loud would make it real.

"Because you're different." His voice is lower now, rougher. His fingers twitch at his sides, restraining the urge to reach for you. "I've been around a lot of people. But you? You're not like them."

His voice drops further, a dangerous edge creeping in. "You're good. Innocent. And I can’t stand the thought of anyone hurting you."

You exhale slowly. The intensity of his words makes your stomach tighten.

You try to lighten the moment. "Even though we just met today?" You give a teasing smile. "What if I’m actually a secret supervillain? A serial killer? Maybe I’m conning you, ever think of that?"

Homelander scoffs, his smirk returning, but his eyes don’t lose that possessive glint. "You?" He tilts his head, stepping closer. "A secret supervillain or a serial killer?" His voice dips, smooth but deadly. "I’d have figured it out by now."

He takes another step forward. His presence is all-consuming. "And even then, sweetheart? I’d still want to protect you."

Your breath catches. You can hear the shift in his tone—the way it thickens, lowers, filled with something unspoken. He leans in, too close now. His gaze flickers between your eyes and your mouth.

He’s going to kiss you.

And that’s when you cut him off.

"Do you… want to go to the premiere together? Tonight?"

Homelander blinks.

You add quickly, "They set me up to go with The Deep, and I don’t really want to go with him. And after what I did to him earlier… I doubt he wants to go with me either."

"The premiere," he repeats, voice tight. "With The Deep." A beat of silence. Then— "Mm-mm. No."

Before you can process it, he takes another step closer, his body practically pressed against yours. His arm snakes around your waist, firm, possessive.

"You’re going with me." His voice leaves no room for argument.

You laugh, breaking the tension. "Okay, but… what do I wear?"

Homelander smirks, his grip tightening slightly, his gaze dropping over you like he’s already deciding. "That’s for me to decide."

You raise an eyebrow. "For you to decide? Didn't know you were a costume designer!"

His smirk deepens. "I have a very specific vision for how I want you to look tonight."

You cross your arms. "Hm. Well, I guess that means you’re taking me shopping."

Homelander exhales sharply, shaking his head with a low chuckle. He should’ve known. You’re not going down that easily.

"Fine. Shopping it is."

But before you disappear down the hall, you turn back over your shoulder. "On one condition."

He narrows his eyes, amused. "What condition?"

"You can’t wear the suit." You grin. "It’s basically saying, ‘Hi, I’m Homelander, please bother me for 800 selfies.’"

Homelander stares, then lets out an exasperated huff. He hates this already. "Fine," he mutters. "But don’t get used to it."

You beam. "Great. Meet you in the lobby in an hour!"

He watches you disappear, rolling his shoulders. What the fuck is he supposed to wear?

Homelander waits in the lobby. He’s still adjusting to the fact that he’s in normal clothes—a fitted black Henley, dark slacks, and polished boots. He feels naked without his suit.

Then you walk in.

Tight Alo athletic set, jacket tied around your waist, chunky sneakers that only girls your age can pull off without looking like they belong in a nursing home. Your hair is in a loose braid, sunglasses perched on your head.

You look so normal.

And somehow, so beautiful.

Homelander exhales sharply, his gaze raking over you. "Damn," he mutters under his breath. "You look…" He stops himself.

You arch a brow. "You clean up nicely too. You should’ve warned me—I would’ve worn my fancy dress."

Homelander smirks. "Yeah, yeah. I look damn good, don’t I?" He strikes a mock modeling pose.

You laugh, rolling your eyes. Before he can say anything else, a little girl tugs on your jacket.

"Misses, why aren’t you wearing your costume?" she asks, eyes wide. You glance at Homelander, amused. You know he wants to say, I told you so.

You crouch down. "Well, sometimes I just want to feel like a normal girl. You know?" You smile. "But while I’m normal for a few hours… will you pretend to be me? You might have to save the day somewhere, though. Think you can handle it?"

The little girl gasps in excitement, nodding eagerly. Her mom snaps a picture, beaming.

Homelander watches all of it in awe. He’s never seen anything like it. The way people look at you, trust you, adore you.

You turn back to him, smiling. "Alright, ready?"

Homelander snaps out of it. He clears his throat, jaw tight."Yeah," he mutters. "I’m ready."

And as you walk beside him, his arm brushes against yours. Maybe this isn’t such a bad idea after all.

Homelander leads you into one of the most exclusive designer boutiques in the city.

The sales associate, Lana, immediately recognizes him. "Good evening, sir," she greets, her gaze flicking to you before returning to him. "It's good to see you back. How can I assist you and your girlfriend today?"

"Oh, I’m not—"

You’re cut off by the subtle tightening of Homelander’s grip on your waist. His voice is smooth, unshakable. "That’s right. This is my girl. We need something elegant for tonight."

Your brows furrow. Did he just call you his girl?

Before you can protest, Homelander looks back at Lana. "Something that makes a statement. Power. Strength. Beauty."

You huff, then decide to push back. "Specifically, your most expensive dresses." You smile innocently.

Lana brightens. "Of course, miss. Right this way."

Homelander narrows his eyes. Oh, you’re playing games now.

You emerge from the dressing room in a tight black dress. He watches you twirl toward the dressing area, completely in control of this moment. Homelander’s entire body stiffens.

The dress clings to you like a second skin. The hemline too short, the neckline too low.

Then—he sees it. The peek of cheek.

You’re not wearing underwear.

His jaw locks. His hands curl into fists.

"Okay, what would you rate this one?" you ask innocently, giving a spin. The dress rising up, showing a glimpse of your pussy. His pussy.

Homelander’s eyes darken. He takes a sharp step forward, his voice low, strained. "No."

You blink. "No?"

His expression is dangerous. His voice drops to a snarl. "You're not wearing that. Not in public."

Your lips curl into a mischievous grin. "Why not? You don’t like it?"

"I love it." His voice is almost painful to admit. "Which is exactly why no one else gets to see it."

You roll your eyes. "Fine, next one."

Nine dresses later, you finally step out in a gorgeous red gown. It fits like a dream. Elegant, classy, but still sensual.

Homelander inhales sharply. He steps forward, his fingers brushing against the fabric. His gaze roams over you, admiration flickering across his face.

"You look…" He exhales, voice gruff. "Like you were made for me."

Your breath catches. For a moment, it feels like something is shifting. Homelander leans in, his lips inches from yours—

You turn away.

"Okay, I’m getting changed."

While you’re in the dressing room, Homelander buys the dress. Along with several designer outfits in your size. Over $2,000 worth.

You emerge, eyes wide at the mountain of bags in his hands. "You… you didn’t have to do that."

Homelander shrugs. "I know." His voice drops. "But I wanted to."

His gaze lingers, possessive. "I want you wearing things I bought. It’s a… possessive thing."

You hesitate, then smile softly. "Alrighty then."

He hasn’t failed to notice. You haven’t submitted. And it’s driving him insane.

Back at Vought Tower, you pause in the lobby. "I need to get ready. Meet me here in an hour?"

Homelander gives a slow nod, eyes fixed on you. "An hour," he murmurs. "Don’t keep me waiting."

He watches you disappear upstairs. Tonight is so important. And you don't even realize it.

Because tonight....

Tonight, everyone will know you belong to him.

[eternallyordinary]

"He Belongs to You" - Part 2

Summary: A high-profile photoshoot should be simple, but with Homelander by your side, how can it be? Tension rises, boundaries blur, and you're left questioning whether his protectiveness is too much—or exactly what you want.

Warnings: obsession, possessive behavior, power imbalance, mild violence, harassment, implied dark themes, mild smut

Make sure you read part 1<3

Part 3 <3

Part 4<3

The break room hums with quiet conversation as you take another sip of coffee, the warmth soothing against your palms. Homelander is still beside you, watching—always watching. His stare lingers, just as heavy as the unspoken thoughts behind it.

You giggle softly, the sound breaking through the charged air between you.

But before he can respond, the door bursts open.

“Hey, hey, new superstar!” Ashley.

She strides in, clipboard in hand, her usual manic energy filling the room. She barely glances at Homelander, doing a double take when she notices how relaxed he looks. What’s the catch?

“And… hey, Homelander…” she adds, clearly confused.

Her gaze darts between the two of you before snapping back to you with a forced grin. “Honey, my newest prodigy, you’ve got a photoshoot in thirty. Remember? Lucky for you, hair and makeup are done. But we need to get you changed—got a whole rack of outfits for you.”

She pauses, grimacing. “Or… lack thereof. Not a lot of fabric. More like… nipple covers.” She shrugs. “This is for Sports Illustrated. They’re really expecting you to skyrocket their sales. No one your age buys magazines anymore, ya know? You’re doing them a huge favor!”

Homelander raises a brow at her words, his gaze flicking to you.

“Sports Illustrated, huh?” His tone is unreadable, but there’s an edge lurking beneath the surface. His eyes trail over your form, his mind already working overtime. He imagines it—you in a skimpy, barely-there swimsuit, all curves and smooth skin, posing for the cameras while the world drinks you in.

His jaw tightens.

You don’t belong to the world. You belong to him.

“Oh, sorry, Ashley. I’ll be right there,” you say, standing up. Then, without thinking, you turn to Homelander. “Can he come?”

Homelander blinks.

You asked if he could come. You wanted him there.

A surge of satisfaction rises in his chest, his ego swelling. He owns this place, yet you still asked—like it was a privilege for him to be included.

But another thought creeps in—can he even control himself watching you parade around in almost nothing? Would he even want to?

He chuckles, amused by your innocence. “Sure, darling,” he says, voice smooth but laced with something darker. “I’d love to.”

Ashley hesitates. “Uh. Yeah. Great. Homelander can come. Let’s go.”

Homelander follows close behind as you’re led toward the photoshoot area, his presence a constant shadow.

Your dressing room is compact yet undeniably lavish—soft lighting, a sleek couch, and a privacy screen that serves no real purpose against his vision. Homelander steps inside, fully expecting you to ask him to leave. Maybe even insist on some privacy.

A part of him almost wants you to. Because if you don’t? He’s not sure he trusts himself.

Instead, you hold up two different bikinis, both tiny. Too tiny.

"Which one do you think?"

He almost laughs. How are you so unaware of what you’re doing to him?

His gaze sweeps over the barely-there swimsuits, then over you.

"Well, well, well," he drawls, stepping closer. "Look who's getting all fancy."

His fingers brush over the lace of one, his touch slow, deliberate. He should leave. He knows that. But the thought of stepping away, of not seeing you in this—impossible.

His smirk deepens. "Why don’t you try this one on first, darling? Even though we both know you look good in anything."

You nod, and you can't help but blush. "Okay."

You step behind the privacy screen, then suddenly peek your head out.

"I know you can, like, see through walls and stuff. So close your eyes. Promise?"

Homelander chuckles, thoroughly entertained. You’re adorable. Like a lamb asking the wolf not to look.

"I promise," he hums, closing his eyes.

It’s hell.

He can hear everything. The rustle of fabric as you slide out of your clothes. The soft hitch of your breath. The shift of your body as you adjust the straps, bare skin brushing against fabric that leaves nothing to the imagination.

His hands flex at his sides, his mind racing.

Then you speak. “Actually… I can’t tie the top. Can you help me?”

Homelander’s eyes snap open.

And there you are—standing before him, barely covered, utterly breathtaking.

His jaw clenches, tension coiling deep in his chest.

It takes every ounce of restraint not to remind you what happens when you tease a man like him.

You turn, holding your hair up, waiting for him to tie the strings.

And it’s over. He's done for.

The bikini is practically a thong. Is this what you’re going to wear in front of the world? He wants to scream.

He exhales slowly, trying to maintain control. His hands tremble slightly as he grabs the strings, knuckles grazing the soft, warm skin of your back.

This isn’t just lust.

It’s something worse.

It’s need.

Ashley’s voice snaps him out of it.

“You ready or what?!”

Then he hears it—Ashley whispering outside the door.

"Why the fuck is he in there with her? Are they fucking already? Get crisis management on this. We need to cover our bases in case this goes public. I mean, I guess they’d be a good PR couple? I don’t fucking know. He's 20 years older than her for fuck sake. Our goal was to make him a father figure to her. Not a fucking DADDY."

PR couple?

No.

You’re not a fucking publicity stunt.

You’re his.

He yanks the strings tighter than necessary, finishing the knot. He can't risk your perfect breasts spilling out of your top.

“All done,” he mutters darkly.

You beam at him, oblivious to the storm inside his head.

“How do I look?”

Homelander exhales sharply.

“You look…” He stops himself. Careful. “Amazing.”

You throw on a cardigan, slipping into your Uggs. Before leaving, you pause in the doorway.

"Are you coming? If you can’t, it’s okay. I just feel… awkward."

Homelander doesn’t hesitate.

"I’m coming."

Of course he is.

Because there’s no fucking way he’s letting you out of his sight now.

The moment you step onto set, a voice cuts through the room.

“Alright, everyone, make way for—” The photographer stops mid-sentence. His eyes widen. His gaze devours you.

"Holy fuck. You are so fucking hot. This is perfect."

Homelander’s stomach turns.

“I want these pics to be fire,” the director continues. “I want us to smell the cum of middle-aged men dribbling off the pages.”

The room goes silent.

Homelander’s hands curl into fists.

You gently tug his arm before he can rip the director’s spine out. “It’s okay,” you whisper.

Then, the music starts—Pornstar by Nessa Barrett.

Fucking perfect.

This isn’t just a nightmare. It’s torture.

The song, the poses, the way you move—it all belongs in his bed, under him, for him.

Maybe he’ll make you pay for this later. Or maybe…

Maybe he’ll just kill the photographer, Ashley, and every other idiot who thought they had the right to put you on display like this.

You move effortlessly, posing with confidence.

He then realizes - you aren’t doing this for them. Not for the cameras. Not even for him.

And that drives him insane. It makes his cock even harder.

As the shoot wraps, Homelander’s sharp ears catch the photographer’s vile murmur—low, smug, and utterly disgusting.

“God, you’re so fucking sexy. Might have to keep a few of these for myself… if you know what I mean.”

The moment the words leave the photographer’s mouth, the air in the room shifts.

Homelander’s smile vanishes.

In an instant, he’s right there, towering over the man, his presence suffocating. The photographer barely has time to react before Homelander tilts his head, a slow, unsettling grin creeping across his face—one that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“What was that?” His voice is calm. Too calm.

The photographer swallows hard, his smirk faltering. “Uh—I just meant—”

“You just meant,” Homelander cuts him off, his tone deceptively light, “that you thought you could talk about her like that?”

Your stomach twists.

You weren’t used to this—this possessive, overbearing protectiveness. It’s almost too much. Embarrassment creeps up your neck as the entire room silently watches, waiting to see what he’ll do.

But… you don’t hate it.

Not completely.

The way he steps between you and the photographer, the way his presence alone makes the man’s face drain of color—it sends a shiver down your spine.

Homelander leans in, voice dropping to something just above a whisper—low, venomous, and dangerously amused.

“See… I don’t like the way you’re looking at her. I don’t like the way you’re talking about her.” His eyes darken, a sickening smile stretching across his lips. “And I sure as fuck don’t like imagining what’s going on in that pathetic little brain of yours.”

The photographer’s breath quickens. “I-I didn’t mean any disrespect—”

Homelander claps a heavy hand on his shoulder, his grip bruising. “Didn’t you?” His voice is mocking, his fingers tightening just enough to make the man wince. “Because to me? It sounded like you wanted to be funny.”

A beat of silence. The tension is unbearable.

You shift awkwardly.

You should stop this. Tell Homelander it’s fine, that you can handle yourself.

But… you don’t.

Because deep down, in a place you don’t want to examine too closely—having him react like this for you? Having him ready to kill for you?

It makes your pulse race in a way it shouldn’t. It makes your center throb.

“Do you think you’re funny?” Homelander whispers, voice dripping with something feral.

The photographer frantically shakes his head. “N-no, sir—”

“Good,” Homelander purrs, his grip lingering for just a moment longer before shoving him back a step.

He straightens, smoothing out his cape, and flashes a charming, empty smile. “Because next time? I won’t be so nice.”

The photographer nods rapidly, sweat beading at his temple.

Homelander barely gives him another glance before turning back to you, his expression softening instantly.

Your body flushes at the shift in his demeanor—like he wasn’t just threatening to end a man.

“C’mon, darling,” he murmurs, placing your cardigan over your shoulders with a gentleness that doesn’t make sense. “Let’s get out of here.”

You should say something.

You should call him out for overreacting, for making you feel like a damsel in distress.

Instead, you swallow hard and nod, letting him guide you toward the exit.

Because even if it embarrasses you, even if it confuses you—

You like it.

And that’s the most dangerous part of all.

[eternallyordinary]

"He Belongs to You" - Part 1

Summary: Your first day at Vought Tower doesn’t go unnoticed—especially by Homelander. What starts as intrigue quickly turns into something deeper, something more intense. He’s never felt this before, and now that he has, he won’t let it go.

Warnings: obsession, possessive behavior, power imbalance, mild violence, harassment, implied dark themes, mild smut

With a deep breath, you step inside Vought Tower, the hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling your ears. The moment you cross the threshold, all eyes are on you. A plush red carpet stretches across the gleaming floor, leading you straight into the heart of the crowded gala.

You brace yourself, forcing a smile as camera flashes go off like a relentless storm. Each burst of light is blinding, each snap of a shutter a reminder that you’re no longer just another face in the crowd.

At the end of the carpet, a formidable lineup awaits—Homelander, Black Noir, Firecracker, Sage, The Deep, and A-Train. The Seven.

“There she is. Our newest member. I've been waiting to meet you!” Homelander grins down at you, his smile sharp and predatory.

His eyes flicker over your form, and something unexpected happens. He was ready to treat you like everyone else—as nothing. But instead, his heart thumps. Hard. Is this what they call love at first sight?

Homelander’s gaze drifts across your face, your body, the way your lips curve into a nervous smile, the way your eyes shine with curiosity. He’s had his fair share of women, but none have caught his attention quite like this. There’s something about the way you move, as if you’re unaware of just how captivating you truly are.

For the first time in a long time, he finds himself at a loss for words.

There’s an innocence radiating off you, a stark contrast to the kind of people he’s used to dealing with. The idea of someone so pure, so untouched by the corruption of the world, excites him. You could be his—his little princess, his perfect possession. He finds himself picturing it: you by his side, always within reach, his to protect, his to control.

He’s never thought about anyone like this before. You spark something in him he doesn’t quite understand.

Homelander suddenly realizes he’s been staring for far too long. He shakes himself from his thoughts, masking his momentary lapse with a smirk.

“Ah, sorry about that.” He chuckles softly, his voice smoother now, more in control.

His eyes sweep over you once more, lingering. The way you stand there, so unsure, so unaware of the effect you have on him—it’s almost too much. He feels something he doesn’t quite recognize. The strange urge to protect. To keep you all to himself.

“It’s okay,” you say sweetly. “It’s nice to meet you. Sorry, I’m a little nervous. This is a lot.”

Homelander’s smirk falters—just for a second—as your voice reaches him. If anyone understands the weight of expectation, the crushing pressure of the spotlight, it’s him. A part of him wants to scoop you up and fly you far away from all of it—away from the flashing cameras, the mindless chatter, the idiots barking their inane questions.

But he reins it in, masking the impulse with practiced ease. Instead, he simply says, “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you too, darling."

You apologize again for being nervous, and he can’t help but find it… cute. The way you fidget, the way your cheeks flush ever so slightly. He commits the image to memory.

You smile at him, a hint of blush dusting your cheeks. You make eye contact, and for a moment, it feels like time has stopped—not in a weird way, but in a way that feels completely natural.

The moment shatters when The Deep steps in, ruining the moment.

“Hey… newest member, right?” His voice is casual, too casual. He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “I’d love to show you around, ya know… Not just the tower, but my room. I’m pretty blunt. You know how it is, most girls who join The Seven have to—” He makes a crude motion with his fist in his mouth, then hesitates. “But wait, you’re over 18, right? Right. Just making sure. Don't want to get another suspension, you know? Anyway, let’s fuck. You look so fucking hot. And-and, so do you, Homelander, sir. No homo though.”

Homelander’s expression darkens instantly. His jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists at his sides. The irritation rolling off him is palpable.

He’s used to sharing women, but something about this—about you—sets him off in a way he doesn’t quite understand. He doesn’t want to share. Not you.

Yet, he forces a tight smile, masking his anger as The Deep runs his mouth.

You tilt your head slightly, giving The Deep an innocent, almost amused smile. Then, in the blink of an eye, his body jerks, his eyes go wide, and he groans in pain, blood seeping from them.

You step toward him slowly, voice calm, unwavering.

“Don’t ever talk to me like that again. I’m your equal. I wasn’t chosen to be a fuck toy. Got it?”

“You fucking bitch—”

“Got it?” you repeat, your voice like steel. “Yes or no?”

“Yes! Yes, I—I’m sorry!” he sputters.

You let go of your hold, watching as he stumbles back. Silence falls over the room. The rest of The Seven stare in awe. Sage, standing off to the side, gives you a slight nod, almost as if to say Good job. He deserved it.

Homelander is floored. His jaw literally drops.

He was prepared to see you as an innocent thing, someone to be protected. But this? This was something else entirely.

You weren’t just another pretty face. You had power. Real power.

The Deep whimpers, turning to Homelander like a child begging their father for help. “Bro? I mean… Homelander? Sir? She’s not allowed to do that, right?”

Homelander’s eyes flick to The Deep, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, his lips curl into something dark.

“She can do whatever she goddamn pleases.”

You smirk, twirling a strand of hair between your fingers, then turn on your heel and walk away. Homelander watches, stunned. You left without a word. No begging for his approval. No waiting for his reaction.

He doesn’t like that.

In an instant, he’s following you.

He catches up to you in the hallway, composing himself just before stepping in front of you.

“Hey…” His voice is softer now, less composed. “Where are you going?”

You blink up at him. “I was going to grab a coffee. Want to join me?”

You smile. It’s casual. Friendly. Normal. Not flirtatious. Not forced.

Homelander is thrown off. He expected you to be fawning over him by now. But instead, you’re just… talking to him. Treating him like a person, not a god.

It’s confusing. It’s intriguing.

He smirks, trying to hide how taken aback he is. “Sure, darling. I could use a cup of coffee.”

As you walk together, he shows you around the tower. You listen, genuinely interested. He finds himself glancing at you every few seconds, trying to figure you out.

Then, you stop in front of a wall—his wall. A collection of photographs from birth to now. Mementos. Honors.

Normally, he’d love to brag about it. But for some reason, right now, he feels… embarrassed?

You smile, eyes landing on a baby picture.

“Awww, this one’s so cute!”

Homelander blinks. No one has ever called a picture of him cute before.

He clears his throat. “Yeah, I guess I was kinda adorable back then.”

You smirk playfully. “Yeah, what happened?”

Homelander’s eyes widen slightly. Did you just—

He chuckles, shaking his head. “I’ll have you know, I’m still cute.”

You giggle, the sound light and effortless. Homelander decides, in that moment, that he wants to hear that sound again. And again.

You finally reach the break room, grateful for a moment of normalcy. The overwhelming chaos of the gala, the constant attention—it’s exhausting. You just need a cup of coffee to ground yourself.

You move toward the machine, rolling up your sleeves, ready to make it yourself. But as soon as you touch the coffee pot, the room falls dead silent.

Vought assistants and PAs stare at you like you just committed a federal crime.

Homelander, standing beside you, looks around, then back at you. His expression shifts—mild confusion turning into pure indignation.

“She shouldn’t be doing this herself,” he scoffs, voice laced with authority.

You freeze, flushing slightly as the entire room remains frozen, waiting for your response. The way everyone bows to him, hanging on his every word, it’s unsettling.

You clear your throat, offering an easy smile. “Oh, Homelander, it’s okay. Seriously. I’d rather make it myself. Thanks, though, guys.”

He doesn’t look convinced. In fact, he looks even more annoyed, like this offends him on some deep, personal level.

You ignore it, focusing on making your drink, acting like it’s no big deal.

A second later, you glance at him. “Want one?”

Homelander blinks. “…Sure, darling.” His voice is smoother now, intrigued. “I’d appreciate that.”

You suppress a laugh, pausing. “Wait. Do you even need caffeine?”

Homelander chuckles at your question, finding your innocence endearing. “Not really. It’s more for the taste.” He leans in slightly, smirking. “But don’t worry, darling. I can still get a buzz off coffee.”

He watches intently as you prepare his drink, captivated by the effortless way you move—by the simplicity of it all. Then, a single drop of coffee escapes, trailing down your hand. Without thinking, you lift it to your lips, tongue flicking out to catch it.

His breath hitches.

You must be messing with him now, right? You have to be.

When you hand him the cup, your fingers brush.

It’s brief, barely a second, but Homelander feels it everywhere. A sharp, electric jolt races through him, rattling something inside his chest. His fingers linger—just a second too long.

His eyes lock onto yours.

The air between you shifts. Something unspoken settles between you both, thick and heavy.

Then you pull away, back to normal. Casual. Unbothered.

Homelander, however? He is not.

Just as you and Homelander settle into an easy rhythm, the break room door swings open. Firecracker strides in, her gaze locking onto him immediately.

She’s used to having his full attention—being the loudest, the most brash. Serving his every need. But right now, he isn’t even looking at her. He’s looking at you.

Her lips curl into a smirk as she saunters over, sizing you up. “Hi. I don’t think we’ve met.”

You offer a polite smile. “Oh, I know who you are.”

Firecracker chuckles, voice dripping with mock sweetness. “And I know who you are. The new recruit everyone’s buzzin' about.”

“Hopefully good things?” you say, trying to keep things light.

She scoffs. “Oh, definitely. You’re just the cutest thing, aren’t you? So innocent. So… naïve.”

Your smile doesn’t waver. “I wouldn’t say naïve, but I’ll take the compliment. Thanks.” You raise your coffee cup in a mock toast before taking a sip.

Firecracker’s smirk tightens. She was expecting intimidation, maybe even submission. But instead, you’re comfortable, unfazed. That drives her crazy.

She leans in, voice lowering. “Naïve, innocent, clueless.” She tilts her head, watching for a reaction. “I guess that’s how they like their new Seven members now.”

You twirl a strand of hair between your fingers, meeting her gaze without hesitation. “You forgot to add jealous—oh wait, that one’s just for you.”

Homelander is watching closely now. He sees the fire in your eyes—the same fire that took The Deep down without a second thought. It excites him.

Firecracker’s jaw tightens. “Jealous? Of you?” She scoffs, but there’s something forced about it. “Please. You’re just a pretty face they hired for ratings.”

“They hired you for ratings too,” you reply, still calm. “Notice I didn’t say pretty face.”

Her eyes flash. The room is silent.

Then you add, voice even but firm, “The misinformation you spread on your show is disgusting. I tried to be nice, but you lie about people of color, immigrants, the LGBT community. You cause people pain. And I’ll make sure the public knows exactly what I think of you.”

For the first time, Firecracker hesitates. A flicker of uncertainty flashes across her face before she quickly masks it with a smug grin. “Oh, sweetie,” she purrs, “you’re just a newbie. You don’t know how this business works. I’ve been playin' the game for years. People eat up what I say.”

“Yeah?” a new voice cuts in. Homelander.

He’s been silent this whole time, observing. But now? His tone is lethal.

“She’s right,” he says smoothly, tilting his head at Firecracker. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about this for a while.” His smile is slow, predatory. “I want you out.”

Firecracker stiffens. “Wait, what?”

“I’ll make sure Ashley gets you a nice severance package,” he continues, voice light, almost bored.

Firecracker blanches. “Homelander… please. I—”

He takes a step forward, voice dropping to something cold, final. “You’ve caused too many problems. You’re done.”

You watch as Firecracker’s confidence crumbles. Her eyes flick from you to him, back to you, before rage floods her features.

With a sharp glare, she storms out, knocking everything off the counters in her path. The tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife.

You exhale, turning back to Homelander. He’s already looking at you.

“You really wanted to fire her?” you ask, suspicious.

Homelander shrugs. “She was a liability. A nuisance. Wasn’t worth keeping around.”

You nod. “Agreed. Sorry, I’ve gone off on two members today. Not making the best first impressions, huh?”

What a ridiculous thing to say. Not making good first impressions? You’ve done more than that—you’ve rewritten his entire existence within hours of meeting. There is no before you, no after you. There is only you.

He can’t say this, though. Not yet. He doesn’t want to scare you.

Instead, he chuckles, shaking his head. “No need to apologize.” His eyes darken slightly, something unreadable lurking beneath the surface. Something possessive.

“You’ve got guts,” he murmurs. “I like that.”

After everything—the gala, The Deep’s failed attempt, Firecracker’s tantrum, the coffee incident—you finally feel like you can breathe.

You slide onto the counter, legs swinging slightly as you sip your coffee, completely unaware of the way he’s watching you—devouring you with his eyes.

What he wouldn’t give to just reach out, grab your face, and kiss you. To start slow, to feel the warmth of your lips against his. He can already picture it—your legs wrapped around him, your body molding to his like you were made for him. He’d ease your panties to the side, fingers teasing, circling your clit—drawing soft, sweet sounds from you as he whispers against your skin.

Such a good girl.

He’d tell you how long he’s been waiting for this. How many sleepless nights he’s spent restless, aching for something he didn’t think could exist—you. How many meaningless women he’s been through, searching for something that was never there.

Because no one else matters. No one else will ever matter.

You deserve to be worshipped, and he’s the only one worthy of doing it.

The thought alone makes him hard, his restraint hanging by a thread. He knows he could take you—could have you if he just tried. He could force you to submit.

But you’re different.

And for the first time in his life, he doesn’t just want to take.

This—you—are worth waiting for.

You glance at him, smirking. “I have to admit, I didn’t expect you to be so nice to me on my first day.” You tilt your head. “No offense, but I kinda thought you’d make me run laps around the building or something for initiation.”

Homelander chuckles, the sound low and amused. He steps closer, leaning against the counter beside you.

“No need for that,” he murmurs, voice smoother now. “I’m finding this way more… entertaining.”

You giggle, sipping your coffee, looking at him with soft, doe-like eyes.

And that’s it. That’s the moment.

Homelander realizes, with absolute certainty, that he’s royally fucked.

Because for the first time in his life, something inside him feels human.

And he hates it.

And he loves it.

Because it means something dangerous.

You don’t just belong to him.

He belongs to you.

[eternallyordinary]

"He Belongs to You" - Part 1

Summary: Your first day at Vought Tower doesn’t go unnoticed—especially by Homelander. What starts as intrigue quickly turns into something deeper, something more intense. He’s never felt this before, and now that he has, he won’t let it go.

Warnings: obsession, possessive behavior, power imbalance, mild violence, harassment, implied dark themes, mild smut

Part 2<3

Part 3<3

Part 4<3

With a deep breath, you step inside Vought Tower, the hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling your ears. The moment you cross the threshold, all eyes are on you. A plush red carpet stretches across the gleaming floor, leading you straight into the heart of the crowded gala.

You brace yourself, forcing a smile as camera flashes go off like a relentless storm. Each burst of light is blinding, each snap of a shutter a reminder that you’re no longer just another face in the crowd.

At the end of the carpet, a formidable lineup awaits—Homelander, Black Noir, Firecracker, Sage, The Deep, and A-Train. The Seven.

“There she is. Our newest member. I've been waiting to meet you!” Homelander grins down at you, his smile sharp and predatory.

His eyes flicker over your form, and something unexpected happens. He was ready to treat you like everyone else—as nothing. But instead, his heart thumps. Hard. Is this what they call love at first sight?

Homelander’s gaze drifts across your face, your body, the way your lips curve into a nervous smile, the way your eyes shine with curiosity. He’s had his fair share of women, but none have caught his attention quite like this. There’s something about the way you move, as if you’re unaware of just how captivating you truly are.

For the first time in a long time, he finds himself at a loss for words.

There’s an innocence radiating off you, a stark contrast to the kind of people he’s used to dealing with. The idea of someone so pure, so untouched by the corruption of the world, excites him. You could be his—his little princess, his perfect possession. He finds himself picturing it: you by his side, always within reach, his to protect, his to control.

He’s never thought about anyone like this before. You spark something in him he doesn’t quite understand.

Homelander suddenly realizes he’s been staring for far too long. He shakes himself from his thoughts, masking his momentary lapse with a smirk.

“Ah, sorry about that.” He chuckles softly, his voice smoother now, more in control.

His eyes sweep over you once more, lingering. The way you stand there, so unsure, so unaware of the effect you have on him—it’s almost too much. He feels something he doesn’t quite recognize. The strange urge to protect. To keep you all to himself.

“It’s okay,” you say sweetly. “It’s nice to meet you. Sorry, I’m a little nervous. This is a lot.”

Homelander’s smirk falters—just for a second—as your voice reaches him. If anyone understands the weight of expectation, the crushing pressure of the spotlight, it’s him. A part of him wants to scoop you up and fly you far away from all of it—away from the flashing cameras, the mindless chatter, the idiots barking their inane questions.

But he reins it in, masking the impulse with practiced ease. Instead, he simply says, “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you too, darling."

You apologize again for being nervous, and he can’t help but find it… cute. The way you fidget, the way your cheeks flush ever so slightly. He commits the image to memory.

You smile at him, a hint of blush dusting your cheeks. You make eye contact, and for a moment, it feels like time has stopped—not in a weird way, but in a way that feels completely natural.

The moment shatters when The Deep steps in, ruining the moment.

“Hey… newest member, right?” His voice is casual, too casual. He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “I’d love to show you around, ya know… Not just the tower, but my room. I’m pretty blunt. You know how it is, most girls who join The Seven have to—” He makes a crude motion with his fist in his mouth, then hesitates. “But wait, you’re over 18, right? Right. Just making sure. Don't want to get another suspension, you know? Anyway, let’s fuck. You look so fucking hot. And-and, so do you, Homelander, sir. No homo though.”

Homelander’s expression darkens instantly. His jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists at his sides. The irritation rolling off him is palpable.

He’s used to sharing women, but something about this—about you—sets him off in a way he doesn’t quite understand. He doesn’t want to share. Not you.

Yet, he forces a tight smile, masking his anger as The Deep runs his mouth.

You tilt your head slightly, giving The Deep an innocent, almost amused smile. Then, in the blink of an eye, his body jerks, his eyes go wide, and he groans in pain, blood seeping from them.

You step toward him slowly, voice calm, unwavering.

“Don’t ever talk to me like that again. I’m your equal. I wasn’t chosen to be a fuck toy. Got it?”

“You fucking bitch—”

“Got it?” you repeat, your voice like steel. “Yes or no?”

“Yes! Yes, I—I’m sorry!” he sputters.

You let go of your hold, watching as he stumbles back. Silence falls over the room. The rest of The Seven stare in awe. Sage, standing off to the side, gives you a slight nod, almost as if to say Good job. He deserved it.

Homelander is floored. His jaw literally drops.

He was prepared to see you as an innocent thing, someone to be protected. But this? This was something else entirely.

You weren’t just another pretty face. You had power. Real power.

The Deep whimpers, turning to Homelander like a child begging their father for help. “Bro? I mean… Homelander? Sir? She’s not allowed to do that, right?”

Homelander’s eyes flick to The Deep, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, his lips curl into something dark.

“She can do whatever she goddamn pleases.”

You smirk, twirling a strand of hair between your fingers, then turn on your heel and walk away. Homelander watches, stunned. You left without a word. No begging for his approval. No waiting for his reaction.

He doesn’t like that.

In an instant, he’s following you.

He catches up to you in the hallway, composing himself just before stepping in front of you.

“Hey…” His voice is softer now, less composed. “Where are you going?”

You blink up at him. “I was going to grab a coffee. Want to join me?”

You smile. It’s casual. Friendly. Normal. Not flirtatious. Not forced.

Homelander is thrown off. He expected you to be fawning over him by now. But instead, you’re just… talking to him. Treating him like a person, not a god.

It’s confusing. It’s intriguing.

He smirks, trying to hide how taken aback he is. “Sure, darling. I could use a cup of coffee.”

As you walk together, he shows you around the tower. You listen, genuinely interested. He finds himself glancing at you every few seconds, trying to figure you out.

Then, you stop in front of a wall—his wall. A collection of photographs from birth to now. Mementos. Honors.

Normally, he’d love to brag about it. But for some reason, right now, he feels… embarrassed?

You smile, eyes landing on a baby picture.

“Awww, this one’s so cute!”

Homelander blinks. No one has ever called a picture of him cute before.

He clears his throat. “Yeah, I guess I was kinda adorable back then.”

You smirk playfully. “Yeah, what happened?”

Homelander’s eyes widen slightly. Did you just—

He chuckles, shaking his head. “I’ll have you know, I’m still cute.”

You giggle, the sound light and effortless. Homelander decides, in that moment, that he wants to hear that sound again. And again.

You finally reach the break room, grateful for a moment of normalcy. The overwhelming chaos of the gala, the constant attention—it’s exhausting. You just need a cup of coffee to ground yourself.

You move toward the machine, rolling up your sleeves, ready to make it yourself. But as soon as you touch the coffee pot, the room falls dead silent.

Vought assistants and PAs stare at you like you just committed a federal crime.

Homelander, standing beside you, looks around, then back at you. His expression shifts—mild confusion turning into pure indignation.

“She shouldn’t be doing this herself,” he scoffs, voice laced with authority.

You freeze, flushing slightly as the entire room remains frozen, waiting for your response. The way everyone bows to him, hanging on his every word, it’s unsettling.

You clear your throat, offering an easy smile. “Oh, Homelander, it’s okay. Seriously. I’d rather make it myself. Thanks, though, guys.”

He doesn’t look convinced. In fact, he looks even more annoyed, like this offends him on some deep, personal level.

You ignore it, focusing on making your drink, acting like it’s no big deal.

A second later, you glance at him. “Want one?”

Homelander blinks. “…Sure, darling.” His voice is smoother now, intrigued. “I’d appreciate that.”

You suppress a laugh, pausing. “Wait. Do you even need caffeine?”

Homelander chuckles at your question, finding your innocence endearing. “Not really. It’s more for the taste.” He leans in slightly, smirking. “But don’t worry, darling. I can still get a buzz off coffee.”

He watches intently as you prepare his drink, captivated by the effortless way you move—by the simplicity of it all. Then, a single drop of coffee escapes, trailing down your hand. Without thinking, you lift it to your lips, tongue flicking out to catch it.

His breath hitches.

You must be messing with him now, right? You have to be.

When you hand him the cup, your fingers brush.

It’s brief, barely a second, but Homelander feels it everywhere. A sharp, electric jolt races through him, rattling something inside his chest. His fingers linger—just a second too long.

His eyes lock onto yours.

The air between you shifts. Something unspoken settles between you both, thick and heavy.

Then you pull away, back to normal. Casual. Unbothered.

Homelander, however? He is not.

Just as you and Homelander settle into an easy rhythm, the break room door swings open. Firecracker strides in, her gaze locking onto him immediately.

She’s used to having his full attention—being the loudest, the most brash. Serving his every need. But right now, he isn’t even looking at her. He’s looking at you.

Her lips curl into a smirk as she saunters over, sizing you up. “Hi. I don’t think we’ve met.”

You offer a polite smile. “Oh, I know who you are.”

Firecracker chuckles, voice dripping with mock sweetness. “And I know who you are. The new recruit everyone’s buzzin' about.”

“Hopefully good things?” you say, trying to keep things light.

She scoffs. “Oh, definitely. You’re just the cutest thing, aren’t you? So innocent. So… naïve.”

Your smile doesn’t waver. “I wouldn’t say naïve, but I’ll take the compliment. Thanks.” You raise your coffee cup in a mock toast before taking a sip.

Firecracker’s smirk tightens. She was expecting intimidation, maybe even submission. But instead, you’re comfortable, unfazed. That drives her crazy.

She leans in, voice lowering. “Naïve, innocent, clueless.” She tilts her head, watching for a reaction. “I guess that’s how they like their new Seven members now.”

You twirl a strand of hair between your fingers, meeting her gaze without hesitation. “You forgot to add jealous—oh wait, that one’s just for you.”

Homelander is watching closely now. He sees the fire in your eyes—the same fire that took The Deep down without a second thought. It excites him.

Firecracker’s jaw tightens. “Jealous? Of you?” She scoffs, but there’s something forced about it. “Please. You’re just a pretty face they hired for ratings.”

“They hired you for ratings too,” you reply, still calm. “Notice I didn’t say pretty face.”

Her eyes flash. The room is silent.

Then you add, voice even but firm, “The misinformation you spread on your show is disgusting. I tried to be nice, but you lie about people of color, immigrants, the LGBT community. You cause people pain. And I’ll make sure the public knows exactly what I think of you.”

For the first time, Firecracker hesitates. A flicker of uncertainty flashes across her face before she quickly masks it with a smug grin. “Oh, sweetie,” she purrs, “you’re just a newbie. You don’t know how this business works. I’ve been playin' the game for years. People eat up what I say.”

“Yeah?” a new voice cuts in. Homelander.

He’s been silent this whole time, observing. But now? His tone is lethal.

“She’s right,” he says smoothly, tilting his head at Firecracker. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about this for a while.” His smile is slow, predatory. “I want you out.”

Firecracker stiffens. “Wait, what?”

“I’ll make sure Ashley gets you a nice severance package,” he continues, voice light, almost bored.

Firecracker blanches. “Homelander… please. I—”

He takes a step forward, voice dropping to something cold, final. “You’ve caused too many problems. You’re done.”

You watch as Firecracker’s confidence crumbles. Her eyes flick from you to him, back to you, before rage floods her features.

With a sharp glare, she storms out, knocking everything off the counters in her path. The tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife.

You exhale, turning back to Homelander. He’s already looking at you.

“You really wanted to fire her?” you ask, suspicious.

Homelander shrugs. “She was a liability. A nuisance. Wasn’t worth keeping around.”

You nod. “Agreed. Sorry, I’ve gone off on two members today. Not making the best first impressions, huh?”

What a ridiculous thing to say. Not making good first impressions? You’ve done more than that—you’ve rewritten his entire existence within hours of meeting. There is no before you, no after you. There is only you.

He can’t say this, though. Not yet. He doesn’t want to scare you.

Instead, he chuckles, shaking his head. “No need to apologize.” His eyes darken slightly, something unreadable lurking beneath the surface. Something possessive.

“You’ve got guts,” he murmurs. “I like that.”

After everything—the gala, The Deep’s failed attempt, Firecracker’s tantrum, the coffee incident—you finally feel like you can breathe.

You slide onto the counter, legs swinging slightly as you sip your coffee, completely unaware of the way he’s watching you—devouring you with his eyes.

What he wouldn’t give to just reach out, grab your face, and kiss you. To start slow, to feel the warmth of your lips against his. He can already picture it—your legs wrapped around him, your body molding to his like you were made for him. He’d ease your panties to the side, fingers teasing, circling your clit—drawing soft, sweet sounds from you as he whispers against your skin.

Such a good girl.

He’d tell you how long he’s been waiting for this. How many sleepless nights he’s spent restless, aching for something he didn’t think could exist—you. How many meaningless women he’s been through, searching for something that was never there.

Because no one else matters. No one else will ever matter.

You deserve to be worshipped, and he’s the only one worthy of doing it.

The thought alone makes him hard, his restraint hanging by a thread. He knows he could take you—could have you if he just tried. He could force you to submit.

But you’re different.

And for the first time in his life, he doesn’t just want to take.

This—you—are worth waiting for.

You glance at him, smirking. “I have to admit, I didn’t expect you to be so nice to me on my first day.” You tilt your head. “No offense, but I kinda thought you’d make me run laps around the building or something for initiation.”

Homelander chuckles, the sound low and amused. He steps closer, leaning against the counter beside you.

“No need for that,” he murmurs, voice smoother now. “I’m finding this way more… entertaining.”

You giggle, sipping your coffee, looking at him with soft, doe-like eyes.

And that’s it. That’s the moment.

Homelander realizes, with absolute certainty, that he’s royally fucked.

Because for the first time in his life, something inside him feels human.

And he hates it.

And he loves it.

Because it means something dangerous.

You don’t just belong to him.

He belongs to you.

Read Part 2 here <3

[eternallyordinary]

What a piece of art this man is

[eternallyordinary]

SMASH, SMASH, SMASH ..... SMASH

[eternallyordinary]